The Attic
by Kaitipoola
Summary: A modern-day Romeo and Juliet story, set in Seattle. Assassins, forsooth.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: I forgot to say last time that everyone will be human in this story. Sorry about that. ****A little bit of background: Bella is 17, and she's been living with Charlie for two years. She's never met any the Cullens. I hope you love this chap, because it took a hell of a long time for me to write it. Bon Appetit. **

**--Poola**

Chapter One

Bella Swan and Mike Newton trudged heavily through the snow.

"Do you know how much longer?" She asked through gritted teeth, trying to keep the annoyance out of her tone. She wasn't even annoyed with him, really—it was more at the fact that she'd gotten herself into this situation in the first place. A bonfire night at La Push had sounded perfectly harmless a week and a half ago. But a week and a half ago, There hadn't been an unholy amount of frozen rain covering the ground.

Mike was huffing quietly beside her, his head bent low against the freezing wind. Now he turned his round, boyish face towards her s, his eyes wide. "Not long," he puffed. "The beach is just through those trees there." He pointed to a small patch of forest ahead, now all covered with white.

"Okay." She shivered enormously, and cursed herself again for not wearing anything warmer than the light jacket she had on now. Mike noticed; Bella saw his eyes flicker sideways at her from under his lashes.

Ugh. She knew that look.

"Sure is cold out here, isn't it?" he asked casually. His hand had already started twitching in her direction.

"Yes," she said flatly.

_Five…Four…Three…Two…One…_

Bella shifted away half a second before his arm moved to wrap itself around her waist.

Okay, _now_ she was annoyed with him.

Mike was just as predictable as clockwork and his opportunist-tendencies were easily outmaneuvered, but she really wasn't in the mood for this kind of thing. The _Let's See Who Can Get Their Hands On Bella First?_ game that Mike had been playing with Tyler Crowley and Erik Yorkie for the last two years was seriously starting to get on her nerves. This, added to the fact that she couldn't feel her hands and that her body felt like a ton of bricks, put her well on the way to becoming seriously pissed off. Dammit.

"Why don't you take the lead?" she snapped.

Foiled, he muttered, "Yeah. We'll probably be the last ones…I can hear their voices." And in truth, if you got past the wind roaring in your ears, the sound of excited chatter from far off was unmistakable. Mike lengthened his stride—she realized that he had been slowing his pace to accommodate her shorter legs—and quickly disappeared into the trees in front of her.

Bella entered the woods much more slowly than he had, grumbling to herself. Once she raised her head and looked around her, she slowed down even more. She had to admit, a snow-covered forest was pretty. Even in the dark, the sight was less forbidding than exhilarating. It was the kind of place w her e a scene from The Nutcracker belonged, she thought. Sugarplum fairies, and all that.

"Bella?" Mike's voice called.

"Go on ahead," she called back. She was sure that any more one-on-one time with Mike would be a bad idea. The only reason that she'd rode here with him was that he asked her before she had the excuse of a prior arrangement with Angela or Jess.

She was waiting around to give him more of a head start when the strangest sound met her ears.

It was halfway between a gargled cry and the high-pitched shriek that an animal might make. To her, it was the sound of utter panic.

Her feet were stumbling furiously through the forest in the direction of the scream before she had time to rationalize her decision. When you think about it, it really was a stupid thing she was doing. If the cry came from a person, as Bella suspected, then she could be in trouble. If it came from an animal, then she could be in even more trouble. It's difficult to explain why she followed the thing, because afterwards she didn't remember choosing to do so. It was like a magnet just happened to be pulling her in that direction.

There was no secret in Forks of the fact that that Bella Swan was an incredibly clumsy person. Ankle-deep snow only exacerbated that fact.

By the time she had slipped once and tripped twice, she heard the sound again, along with the sound of something crashing through the trees at a dead run. And this time she knew it was a human—a man. She could hear him gibbering and muttering to himself like someone pushed to the brink of insanity. Like someone who was running a race to save his life, and knew he was going to lose.

Someone else might have called, "Stop!" or "Wait!" But she instinctively knew that to stop him would be to kill him. He had to keep running.

Was it a wolf chasing him? A bear? She'd been told of that kind of thing happening in Washington, but she couldn't hear any pursuit.

Bella didn't realize that she had been listening while standing still or that he was coming toward her until it almost too late. With a frightened gasp, she jumped out of the way as a middle-aged man with light brown skin flew past her.

A moment later, everything was quiet. With a terrified curiosity, she followed—cautiously, quietly, with a whole layer of trees between her and the footprints he had made in the snow.

She saw movement in a tiny clearing between the trees, and her hands trembled despite their numbness.

The man who she'd heard screaming lay panting on the ground. He briefly struggled to get up, then fell back with a gasp of pain. She guessed that he had fallen and broken a bone.

All of this she noticed on the periphery. Because no more than three feet from the man on the ground was another man, young, huge, beautiful, obviously strong, and infinitely more dangerous. There was no doubt that this was what Screaming Guy had been running from. And she was seriously debating whet her or not There was a gun in his hand.

Bella was caught between horror and wonder. How could he have overtaken Screaming Guy without making any sound? No one that big could run through a forest undetected. Impossible. It was no wonder Screaming Guy was screaming.

"God, oh God," Screaming Guy whimpered from his place on the ground. His voice was edging towards hysteria again.

A better person, or a braver one, would have thrown themselves in front of him and told the man with the gun to back off. Bella didn't do that.

She watched, in immovable stasis, as the man with the gun aimed his weapon. There was a careless sort of precision in the way he moved; she couldn't place it. Whatever it was, he looked like he meant business.

Desperately, Screaming Guy gasped, "Please—"

The man shot him.

All of her muscles loosened, despite the aching cold, as if this was the exact moment they had chosen for action. Every cell in her body screamed at her to run. She held herself at bay for a moment longer, though, registering what had just happened. It hadn't fully hit her yet.

Screaming Guy was dead. She watched him die, watched his body crumple into darkness like a pathetic broken toy.

"Oh my God," she said, too low for anyone but herself to hear. "Holy shit," she said, testing her words out, almost afraid that no more words could be spoken after such a thing happened.

It was just her luck, though…or maybe more than luck…that the man with the gun tensed at her words as if she'd spoken at normal volume. Bella couldn't see their color or their shape, but she knew that his eyes had already found her. So much for keeping a safe distance.

The man didn't look happy to see her. "Shit," he growled. It was the first thing she'd heard him say, and his voice was gravelly and raw and deep and scary as hell.

He started toward her, and she fully realized as he came closer how very bulky and muscled he was. It was impossible to mistake the danger signs flashing from him.

With a squeak of panic, she scrambled backwards into the snow. Her fingers must have been blue, because she couldn't even feel anything to push off of.

The man actually chuckled. He didn't sound angry at all anymore. She didn't believe it for a minute. "Come on," he said, and then he scooped her up like she weighed nothing, and began walking through the trees.

She screamed.

Yes, she did. Everyone plans exactly what they would do or say in such a situation: everyone plans to be proud and calm and strong. But out of all those people, only a handful understand that in that moment, with adrenaline rushing through you and panic overtaking you, being a coward is nothing in comparison to being dead.

The hand that clamped over her face was so calloused that it was actually smooth. "Don't do that again, honey, or I'm gonna hurt you bad." The man's voice was good natured, but he used such a tone of finality when he said 'hurt you bad' that there was no doubt what he meant.

So Bella clamped her mouth shut, and thought through her options.

Calling for help was obviously a no-go. So were running or fighting; he'd catch her or kill her. Outsmarting him was a more logical option, but in her position it didn't seem very likely. It looked like her best chance of survival was to get him to like her enough to let her live. And that one was shaky at best.

"Damn it," she moaned. She was dead for sure. Might as well say her goodbyes now.

"Yeah," the man carrying her agreed, as if he knew exactly what she was thinking. "I didn't plan on you either."

His strides were long, his gait steady. And she had no clue how he did it, but he hardly made any sound as he moved. She couldn't detect his boots crunching into the snow, or the brush of tree branches on his body. Even his breathing was silent, and she could feel his chest rising, so she knew he wasn't holding it in.

The man had Bella out of the forest and back onto the streets of La Push in half the time that she and Mike had taken without carrying anything at all.

The streets were empty. There was no one to notice the oddness of his carrying her instead of letting her walk, or the steely firmness of his grip. He carried her over to a nondescript, average-looking black car with dark-tinted windows. She balked when she saw it; his arms tightened mercilessly around her.

He surprised her by throwing her in the passenger seat instead of the backseat, and then slammed the door shut. The first thing she noticed was that there didn't seem to be locks on the doors. A swell of half-disbelieving hope filled her, as she realized that this could be her last chance to survive. She was just reaching for the door handle when the man climbed into the driver's seat. He immediately pressed a button, and she heard a faint _click _coming from the inside of all four doors. The swell of hope was replaced with a despairing, sinking feeling.

The man revved the engine, and the car shot forward.

As the car began to exit the street, he pulled a tiny cell phone out of an inside pocket in his heavy black coat. He pushed a speed-dial number and held the phone to his ear, driving all the while with effortless accuracy.

He began, "Hey, Joe? Hey, it's Emmett. Listen, I finally got my guy in La Push—"

There was a brief comment from the other end.

"Yup, finally nagged the bastard," the man—Emmett—replied, completely ignoring the fact that Bella was hyperventilating in the seat next to him. "But hey, I need a favor from you. Something came up, and I couldn't take care of the body. Could you do it? It's in the woods, just north of First Beach."

The voice from the other end sounded annoyed.

Emmett laughed. "Think again, Joe. You owe me."

There was a short answer, and then he flipped the phone shut.

The brightness of the car's headlights gave her a chance to study his face. His features had a slightly boyish cast to them, though he was by no means a child. From his dark curls to his sparkling brown eyes to his perfect round ears, he was the most handsome man she had ever seen.

And he had just killed someone. Nagged the bastard, as he'd said.

With that, she found her voice. "Are you g-going to kill me?"

He flashed an impish sideways smile at her, revealing adorable dimples. "Probably," he said.

Her breath caught, and she strove to keep her voice icy and firm. "Well, then you should probably just get it over with." It's not like she'd been big on self-preservation before anyways.

Emmett smiled again, this time his eyes left the road to assess her. "We'll see," he promised.

His easy manner contradicted the threat in his hulking muscles. It was easy to start to warm towards him, before she remembered that he was probably going to kill her.

After that was at least a thirty minutes of horrified silence. Bella had never been a particularly religious person—she'd tolerated the diverse churchgoings and out-there rituals that Renée had participated in at various times. Since Renée's fancy only ever lasted a week or two, she'd always seen religion as a sort of hobby, like kayaking or sculpting. This really didn't help her out, though, seeing as she was about to die without having any idea of what was on the other side.

And how much would it hurt? Would it be quick? Would he use the gun, like he had before? She recalled the image of Screaming Guy sagging into the snow, an oozing bullet hole between his eyes, and almost gagged in revulsion.

Maybe, if he knew what he was doing, he could make it quick for her. She was almost positive that he knew what he was doing.

She broke the long silence by asking, already knowing what his reply would be, "Was that the first time you've killed somebody?"

He barely skipped a beat. "No."

Bella wasn't surprised by his answer. And she thought she had a pretty good idea why he'd killed Screaming Guy. The completely businesslike stance that Emmett had taken while killing him made him look less like a serial killer and more like a _trained _killer.

She choked on the word _assassin_. "Are you…are you a…"

"A professional? A hatchet? A hit-man? Oh, yes." He gleamed at her conspirationally. "It's good pay."

He was completely comfortable telling her about his profession. Since he didn't plan on letting her leave him alive, he could tell her his deepest darkest secrets and no one on earth would ever know. This was probably why she wasn't blindfolded or unconscious or something.

Bella wondered what Charlie or Renée would do if they knew that she was trapped in a car with a happy-go-lucky assassin. She wondered if her friends had already started searching the forest for her. Would they find Screaming Guy's body, or would Joe get to it first? And how would Mike Newton feel for the rest of his life, knowing that if he hadn't pulled his move, she might be home and safe?

It really pissed her off that she was going to die. She was scared out of her pants, too, but it made her angry that fate had never had anything very good to give to her. Bella's lot in life had been a family that was disjointed and broken, friends that didn't know her, freakish paleness and klutziness. And she'd only spent seventeen years on this earth. Now she was going to die without ever having gotten the chance to live.

"That's disgusting, you know," she blurted, her anger making her bold and stupid. "Killing innocent people because it's good pay. How does someone like you sleep at night, doing what you do?"

This time, Emmett kept his eyes on the road, and his face was serious. "Walk in my shoes first, baby," he said. "I can hear the judgment. That worthless fuck I shot back there? He was a child-rapist. A child-rapist who had enough money to keep the kids and their families quiet. Don't even consider going to the police. Now, tell me, was he innocent?"

She kept her head down and said nothing. In her mind, she was revising the impression she'd had of Screaming Guy. Given what Emmett had just told her, his last cries for mercy seemed pathetic and cowardly.

"I'm going to sleep with a smile on my face tonight," Emmett continued. "I killed him, and I'm proud of it."

The words sent chills down her spine. Her body shuddered, cringed away from his statement, but she felt a fierce, foreign part of her surging forward in triumph.

"But you're going to kill me," she whispered, fighting back the unknown surge and the panic at the same time. "I've done nothing. Promise."

Emmett turned to face her, his face grave. "If I do, it will be to protect my way of life, and the people I love. I'm not willing to stop because the law says it's not my place to kill. The law isn't always the right thing."

Bella curled further into a ball on the seat, trembling wildly even though her thoughts were steady. So, the hit-man had his own ideas of morality. And he'd just justified her death in three sentences. And part of her thought he was right. Yeah, she was dead for sure.

"But you're not dead for sure," he said, the smile returning to his face as quickly as it had left. He winked at her. "I'll do what I can for you, babydoll. You make no mistake about that."

Though she was pretty sure he was lying, and she'd intended to keep quiet, she couldn't help saying, "Bella. Not Babydoll. Bella."

He flashed his dimples at her again, and she was about to smile back nervously before she realized how crazy she was acting. She should be screaming and fighting for all she was worth—there was no way that she should feel comfortable around her future killer to any degree. Maybe all of the stress was loosening the threads that held her sanity together.

Forty-five more minutes of silence. She counted them on the clock on the dashboard. It seemed like her conversations with Emmett came at spastic intervals.

Bella glanced up through the windshield glass and, with a jolt of shock, recognized the space needle. "Seattle?" she gasped. "You're in _Seattle_?"

Emmett didn't answer.

She expected him to head straight for the city's uppity side, the side with the insanely expensive restaurants and the theatres and the way-too-high skyscrapers. Instead, he gunned for the trashy end—package complete with cheap factories with graffiti tattooed onto the walls, rundown public schools, and the occasional McDonald's on a street corner.

He slowed down and pulled into the parking lot of a large, plain building with old-looking paint. It was completely ordinary, the kind of building that you would glance at and never think of again. The building reminded her of the mediocre looks of the car Emmett was driving, and she began to notice the pattern: everything was as unobtrusive as possible.

He parked quickly in a line of blue and black cars of varying degrees of beauty. He opened the door for her again, and she didn't fight him when he pulled her into his bulky arms, deciding that her life might hinge on a certain amount of compliance.

Emmett's grip was no looser than it had been before the car drive. His cheerful nonchalance gone, he was completely business again. He carried her to the entrance, then dangled her with one arm as he took out what looked like a golden credit card and quickly slid it into a small slot next to the doors. A green light flashed, and the doors slid open like the motion-detecting ones Bella had seen in the front of grocery stores.

Once they were inside and she had the chance to look around, she froze in confusion. In front of her was the a-typical work office. Cubicles with desks, computers, and stacked files were placed in orderly lines across the room. The room was empty.

Emmett didn't pause. In silence, he strode across the harmless room and approached another closed door. On the wall next to the door was some kind of pad; he pressed his first finger against it and she watched in awe as the door slid open to grant him access. It opened to a small room with two elevators.

Despite herself, Bella started to cry. There was just something so final and irrevocable about the sight of those elevators that she couldn't help herself. The reality, which had been slowly seeping in since Screaming Guy had died, now hit her fully. There was no one to help her, despite Emmett's assurances. She was going to be dead. No one would ever find her body, and Charlie and Renée…

A harsh slap across her face stung her into silence.

Emmett didn't even say anything, only sent her a pointed look that said, _If you don't stop crying in five seconds, you're going to die_. He got into the elevator with her still in his arms. He hadn't put her down yet, but he was still toting her 100-plus pound weight around like he didn't even notice.

The buttons on the elevator wall were numbered one through five. He pushed number five, and rumbled in her ear, "Don't say anything once we get up there. Not one word."

"Ok-kay," she stuttered pathetically.

It didn't take long for the elevator to pull to a stop. The doors parted to reveal a room a little smaller than the first one she'd seen. The walls were lined from floor to ceiling with closed, dangerous looking cabinets. In the middle of the space there was a long table with no chairs, but four comfy-looking sofas faced eachother at the end of the room. This room wasn't empty—there were half a dozen people lounging on the couches and murmuring amongst themselves. She could see other hallways branching out from the room.

A few people got up when they saw them enter, and a gorgeous blonde woman came straight toward them while reaching for her belt, her eyes locked on Bella.

"Don't, Rosalie," Emmett ordered. The woman paused, a straight dagger clenched between her long fingers. Bella jerked back in Emmett's arms with a gasp of panic.

"What is this?" Rosalie hissed, her prefect face twisting with fury. "What the hell are you doing? Did she see something?"

Despite the fact that the woman obviously wanted her to disappear, Bella couldn't help but stare at her in fascination. The woman's hair fell around her face in rippling golden waves, and her body was tight and muscled in a way that Bella's softness could never compete with. And she held the long knife like she knew exactly how to use it.

The others in the room all had their gazes locked on Bella, their eyes flat. Emmett nodded and opened his mouth to speak, but Rosalie cut him off. "Are you insane? Why isn't she dead? If Aro or Carlisle—"

"I'm gonna give her a chance," Emmett said. "She might have potential."

Everyone relaxed back into their cushions, but Rosalie looked at her dubiously.

"This little thing?" Rosalie looked her up and down, calculating. Then she laughed coldly. "She wouldn't even be able to pull the trigger."

Emmett replied, his voice gentler than before, "You weren't such a seasoned warrior when I taught you, Rose."

Rosalie's face softened slightly, and she shrugged, playing with her dagger absentmindedly. "Train her or kill her, I don't care. My next hit's in Florida, so I'll probably be gone for a week. Make sure this is taken care of by the time I get back. You know how Carlisle is." She reached up and ran her non-daggered hand over Emmett's dark curls briefly, and then passed him to enter the elevator behind them.

Bella exhaled loudly, not bothering to hide her relief. At the least, she could count on a few more minutes of life. Rosalie's dagger had said otherwise.

"Emmett." A man with ruddy skin and shoulder-length black hair spoke up from the couch. "You taking her to the attic?"

Emmett grinned at him.

The man sighed. "I hope you know what you're doing."

Emmett rolled his eyes. "Don't be insulting," he said. He shifted his grip on Bella and started moving again. He walked them past the sofas and through one of the hallways. The hallway led to an ominous looking staircase. It looked a little more like what Bella had initially expected.

Bella stiffened, and then paused as she remembered something that the blonde woman, Rosalie, had said: _Train her or kill her_.

"So, what did that mean?" she asked out loud. "Join or die, is that the deal?"

He was already halfway up the staircase when he answered, "Yeah. That's the deal. If you have the guts, that is."

Once again, as he climbed the last of the stairs, Bella considered her options. The way she saw it, there were three of them, but only two were feasible. Option One: Get Emmett to put her down, run like hell, and hope that the people on the couches didn't kill her before she got into the elevator. That was the unfeasible one. Option Two, only a little less impossible than Option One: Survive whatever training Emmett had to throw at her, and join his merry band of assassins. Option Three, the most likely of all: Die.

The room they arrived in was empty of people and any kind of furniture. There was the same finger-scanning pad on the wall, but Bella was surprised when Emmett also entered a seven-digit code into the keypad next to it. These guys were definitely high on security. She couldn't really blame them when she considered what was probably going on in this building on a daily basis.

A few moments later, a trapdoor opened in the ceiling directly above them, and a rope ladder slid down to plant itself in two indentations on the floor that she hadn't noticed before. Emmett loosened his grip and let her stand on her own feet. _Finally_, she thought, but her relief was short-lived. Behind her, she heard the cocking of a gun, and immediately felt the merciless cold of steel pressed against the back of her head.

"Please—"

"Climb, Bella."

She scrambled to obey, fighting back the whimper of panic that threatened to escape her. _I can't be a coward_, she told herself over and over. Not only for her survival, but also for her own sense of pride. Charlie would want to see her with her head high.

When she got to the top, Emmett pushed her into the space. He pulled himself up after her, replaced his gun, and nudged a button on the floor next to the top ladder rung. At once, the rope ladder slid back up again, and the trapdoor closed behind them. It made sense that Emmett had put his gun back, because there was nowhere for her to run.

This room was the most impressive of all. It was a huge space, larger than the fake work-office or the room with the couches. And since most of the cabinets in this room were open, it was easy to guess what had been in the ones in the last room. In this wide space every kind of gun or blade that she could ever think of was arrayed to perfection, along with what looked like small explosive devises. Bulletproof vests and pants were ironically racked right next to alphabetized stacks of bullets. At the far end of the room, there were punching bags along with machines, some which she recognized from gyms she'd seen in Phoenix and some that she couldn't place at all. There was a target-range in the far left hand corner of the room.

Bella paused, drinking the sight in and wondering what kind of money a person must have to fund such equipment. _How much did it cost to give an assassin unlimited resources? _Then she noticed a deep concrete dome next to the boxing bags. She didn't understand what its purpose was.

"What's that?" she asked, pointing to it.

"It's where we're going. Come on," Emmett answered. He half-dragged her across the open space—it was dark, only the moonlight filtering in through a skylight allowed her to see anything—and set her to a stop right at the edge. Further inspection wasn't helpful in telling her what the dome was for. The only thing she gathered was that it was deep enough that once someone got in, it would be extremely difficult to get out. A sort of fearful suspicion began to dawn on her.

"Get in," Emmett ordered bluntly. When Bella hesitated, he shoved her.

She landed heavily on the concrete surface, and moaned from the pain of her fall. Emmett slid down gracefully, stopping and planting his feet at the precise center of the dome. "Up," he said.

"Just one second, please," Bella gasped, nursing her leg.

Emmett aimed a kick at her spread-eagled form. When she cried out, he kicked her again, harder.

"Stop! No, stop it, please, please!" She begged, cringing against the cold concrete, hearing how pathetic she sounded and hating it.

He heard it, too. He cocked his head and looked down at her with sincerity in his eyes. "Aw, honey, don't make me kill you."

His words barely even registered in Bella's ears; she was still recovering from the blinding shock of pain. "You'd hit a girl?" she gasped out. It really was a stupid question, since he'd threatened her with death several times, but she'd never been hit by a boy. Ever. To tell the truth, she didn't have much of a history with pain in general. She hadn't even broken a bone—it looked like that was about to change shortly.

In response, he threw a punch at her jaw. She let out a hoarse cry as she felt his fist colliding with her bone.

"You're insulting your sex by even asking me that. A girl can take a hit just as easy as a guy can," Emmett said. He knelt down and punched her in the stomach. Bella couldn't even scream, there was no air in her lungs, there was no strength in her body. But she also felt anger rising in her at his words.

"Do you get off on stuff like this, you bastard? Hurting people just because they're weaker than you are?" She held back a dry sob.

Emmett got up, smiling, and kicked her shin. "Oh, so you can talk dirty," he mocked. But then, from her fetal position on the ground, Bella saw his smile drop and his face turn solemn. He knelt down again, but this time he didn't punch her. He reached around for the back of her neck so he could pull her face closer to his, so she could meet his eyes.

"I told you I'd try to help you, and I am," he said with conviction. "Yes, I'm hitting you. Yes, I'm hitting you and I'm going to keep hitting you because if I don't hit you, you'll never learn how to hit back. If I just sat here and had a conversation with you or some shit, then you'd be worthless. You'd never learn to throw a decent punch or how to aim a forty-five. So, you see?" He punched her face, slamming her head back into the concrete. "I'm helping you. I'm teaching you to survive."

"Oh, God," Bella groaned, fighting the dizziness and the weakness and the black haze over her eyes. She tried to focus her gaze on Emmett's face. "I can throw a punch," she assured him. "I'd love to break your face right now."

He chuckled deep in his throat, and shook his head. "You've got to learn to take a decent hit before you can give one. That's just the way it is. And I know you hate me now, but you won't. By the time you _are _good enough to break my face, you'll love me, I promise. I'm a pretty likable guy."

She believed him—she remembered thinking herself crazy for feeling comfortable around him in the car. But she shook her head, whispering, "I can't."

"Sure you can, kid," Emmett said easily. "What have you been doing for the past five minutes?"

"That's not what I mean," Bella said quietly. "I mean that I can't kill people for a living, I just can't. It doesn't matter whether they're good guys or bad guys. I don't think I can do it."

Emmett continued raining blows on her automatically while he thought for a minute. Everything was quiet save the sound of her groans and whimpers.

"It gets easier after a while," he finally said. "You get used to it. You just have to keep in mind the good that you're doing, the people you're saving. Like the man I killed in front of you…because I chose to take that hit, every kid in the world is safe from him. The choices we make have a big impact on the world. We try to make sure it's a good impact."

"By killing people?" she protested.

"Yeah," he affirmed, slamming his fist into her right shoulder. "But I understand why you wouldn't want this life. It's not for the faint of heart or the excessively moral. And you do have a choice. But personally, I think it's a lot more fun than being dead. That's why I didn't just shoot you when I saw you in the woods. You don't want to throw your life away at—what are you? Sixteen?"

"Seventeen," she whispered through frozen lips, her voice sounding dull and mindless. Which was funny, because she was thinking, possibly harder than she'd ever thought before in her life.

"The ripe old age of seventeen," Emmett commented, his voice challenging. "So what'll it be, Bella? Would you rather die than commit a lifetime of sin? Or do you have the stomach to survive it?"

Believe it or not, this wasn't an easy decision for her. Her mind felt the full weight of the thousands of people she would kill, the cost of so many lives stolen, no matter how evil her targets were. In a lot of ways, it would be better for the world if Bella just told Emmett to shoot her. But she also saw the good that would come of her actions, and the innocent lives that she could shelter by choosing, like Emmett had. By making her own choice.

So Bella disregarded the voices of conventional morality that swirled around in her head. She ignored the choice that everyone dear to her in this world would have her make. She searched for the fierce, foreign part of herself that she had sensed back in Emmett's car. As she embraced that side of herself completely, she felt the Bella that she had known all her life, Old Bella, slip away from her and drift up through the skylight. New Bella had the reigns now. And New Bella wasn't a girl who would ever lie in a broken, crumpled heap on the floor.

Fighting the pain and the heavy weakness in her body, Bella uncurled herself and slowly rose to her feet. She looked Emmett straight in the eye.

"You can go ahead and hit me again," she offered. "I'm ready."

Emmett smiled approvingly at her. "Welcome to the family, baby," he said, and threw his fist straight for her face.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: 'Lo, loves. Sorry this one took so long. As she did in Beauty and the Beast, Lomesir is going to beta for the Attic. She's spectacular, so you can expect a significant change in the quality of my writing, and also less grammatical mistakes for you to wince at. Chapter One of this story was inspired (oddly) by Separate Ways, courtesy of Journey. The music for this chapter is Float On by Modest Mouse. **

--Poola

Chapter Two

_Three Years Later _

"Bitch," Rosalie spat.

Bella held her down for a second longer than necessary, enjoying the moment. She was euphorically aware that everyone had witnessed her victory. Her dark hair tumbled down into Rosalie's face, which seemed to irritate her even more.

"You know, that's still one of the hottest things I've ever seen," Jasper commented from behind them, the southern drawl making his voice unmistakable. A couple of men whistled at his remark, and Emmett chuckled in agreement.

Bella released Rosalie, smiling in triumph, and leapt to her feet in one fluid movement. She offered a hand to help the blonde up. "Call it beginner's luck," she mocked.

Rosalie, ignoring Bella's hand, rose to her feet gracefully. She was panting lightly from the fight; so was Bella. Her face was wreathed in an indignant scowl.

Emmett laughed and came toward them. "Aw, Rosie baby, don't sulk," he said cheerfully, bending down to kiss her frowning mouth. "You know you're still the prettiest." He looked over his shoulder to wink at Bella.

Rosalie shook out her golden curls and wiped the sweat from her forehead, beginning to smile despite herself. She turned to Bella and leveled a fierce look at her. "Don't expect that to happen next time," she warned.

"Oh, I don't," Bella replied, still smiling. It was always so much fun to go up against Rosalie, because she was incapable of laughing anything off. She was always so offended when she lost.

Bella never underestimated her, though. Rosalie was a good fighter, better than quite a few of the men. And she knew that a couple of years ago, those blows would have killed her. It seemed impossible that so much could happen in the space of a few years.

People say that God created the world in seven days. It had taken Bella much longer than that to recreate herself.

_It was an excruciating process. Emmett wasn't one to throw light punches, and he had insisted that she needed to learn to overcome pain before he could teach her anything else. She'd been beaten within an inch of her life, stabbed in various places, and she was shot so many times in those bullet-proof vests that at one point she couldn't even see the color of her skin past all the bruises. _

_There was an upside to it, though: the Healers. Just as the association had advanced technology for killing, it had advanced technology for healing. There were certain kinds of creams that stimulated white blood cells, making the healing process ten times faster. There were oils that erased all pain, and ones that made you feel like you'd had fifteen hours of sleep, even if you hadn't slept at all that night. _

_For a while, the Healers were the only remotely good thing about her life, and she'd hated Emmett with a passion. But then, gradually, Emmett began to teach her. He started her education out small, training her in man-to-man combat, teaching her how to throw a decent punch, teaching her how to keep throwing in a way that your opponent went down, and stayed down. _

_Emmett taught Bella gracefulness, as well; taught her to be flexible and fluid, taught her to jump from a roof to a window-sill without making a sound. In a world where one wrong move could be the difference between living and dying, no one could afford to be klutzy. They murdered her clumsiness together, and another fragment of Old Bella broke off and disappeared. _

_After that, after she began to trust him a little bit, he taught her how to kill. People always associate killing with a weapon of some sort, but that really isn't necessary. There were certain points all over the body, especially around the neck, that proved fatal if you applied the right amount of pressure. This only worked, however, if you could get that close to your target without being detected. Which you usually couldn't. _

_Her tutelage in weaponry came last, and it was long and difficult and terrifying. It was also very empowering. Before she'd met Emmett, Bella could hardly tell the difference between a rifle and a shotgun, a dagger and a bread knife. Now she could catalogue nearly every gun or blade known to man, and discuss in detail the good and bad points of each one. And, of course, she could use them. _

_Bella took her first hit and become a member of the __**Vindici**__ four months after Emmett first began her training. Much longer than seven days. _

_**Vindici**__ was a Latin term for Avenger, or, more literally, Vindicator. The organization was headed by Aro, who was Italian—hence the Latin name—and managed by Carlisle. Bella met and been approved by both of them before officially becoming a member. _

_Carlisle came first. He was a tall man with light blonde hair, and devastatingly attractive. The kind tone in his flowing British accent put Bella immediately at ease, but there was an agonized somberness in his blue eyes that made her sure that if she failed to pass his test, he would have no choice but to order her killed. And Emmett, bright, happy Emmett, would have no choice but to do it. _

_Thankfully, she passed the examination. Carlisle seemed satisfied with the skills she demonstrated, and the even confidence in her answers to all of his questions. Emmett was relieved, and she was glad that at least someone cared whether she lived or died. Over the past few months, she'd come to think of him as a friend, just as he'd predicted that first night. _

_There was no test required when she met Aro. It seemed as if he just wanted to meet her. Aro had long black hair and olive-toned skin, and there was no hint of steel in his eyes, only gentle amusement. In truth, he didn't need to display his authority at all—his air was so completely regal and menacing that appearing anything but kind would be superfluous. _

"_Hello, Bella." Aro greeted her with an almost-paternal familiarity. _

"_Aro," Bella inclined her head respectfully. She fought back both the instinctual urge to bow and the instinctual urge to run. _

_Aro smiled pleasantly. "Carlisle has told me that you wish to join our ranks, my dear. Was he mistaken?" _

_Bella shook her head firmly. "No." She wished that she could sound more intelligent, or at least say more than one word at a time, but her tongue seemed stiff in her mouth. _

_His expression was a study; reassuring and calculating and delighted all at once. "I'm glad to hear it," he said generously. "Carlisle has informed me of your skill, your determination. But I'm afraid that the choice to become a member of the __**Vindici**__ is a bit more permanent than your average career. Once you have committed yourself, the __**Vindici **__expects your full and unwavering loyalty. Your duty will be to complete your missions without fail, and protect your fellow members, also without fail. You understand me, yes?" _

_A small part in the back of Bella's mind was amused that Aro was naming the disadvantages of becoming an assassin, knowing that he would kill her if she refused. But her voice was clear and steady when she answered, "I understand completely, Aro. You have my word."_

_Aro stood up from the wide, intimidating desk he had been lounging behind. He drew a clear packet full of papers from a drawer and slid them silently across the desk toward her. _

"_You may find this information useful," he said. "Carlisle will administer all of your missions in the future…You may go." _

_The day that Bella met Aro was the day that the meager funds in her bank account increased one hundredfold. Her assets were unlimited. All she had to do was kill people._

_She'd thought that her decision not to be trained by Emmett was the major turning point in her life, but on the night of her first hit she realized that she'd been wrong. It was __**this **__choice, this moment, which would define her future. Maybe she was in too deep with the __**Vindici **__to just up and run, but she still had a choice to make. Emmett had never discussed it with her, but she felt that she deserved the choice not to pull the trigger. She could explain that she needed more time, that she would try again…_

_The man was named Ralph Campton, and was a Green River Killer imitator. He was careful with the women he killed, careful and sleek and quiet and clever, and the police hadn't had any new leads in months. His victims were virtually untraceable. _

_It was almost too easy—it took Bella less than a week to find him. She went, Emmett along with her, to the man's small Tacoma apartment. At the time she was carrying a Sig Sauer handgun, compact and smooth, perfect for taking a quick hit. She wore soft leather boots to further ensure that she moved in silence. _

_Bella found Campton in his bedroom, reading under the dim light of a bedside lamp. It was nearly 12:00, but he was still awake, almost as if he'd been waiting for her. He didn't say a word when he saw her enter his room, gun cocked and aimed at him. He just put the book down and stared at her expectantly, his gray eyes hungry and cold. _

_She gazed, transfixed, at the small point of his forehead that she was aiming for—perfect aim. Adrenaline slid furiously through her veins, and yet all she could do was stare. _

_Ralph Campton's eyes never gained any expression, but his mouth twisted upward in a questioning smile. _

"_Go, Bella," Emmett whispered from behind her. _

"Nice one, Bell." Jasper murmured. She hadn't noticed him climbing down the ladder behind her. He smiled, ran a hand through his honey-blonde mane, and draped an arm across her shoulders.

Bella smiled lazily, barely flicking her eyes upward to acknowledge his compliment. Speech was often unnecessary with Jasper, they were so well attuned to eachother. While she and Rosalie fought, catlike, with a secret fondness for eachother, and she shared an easy camaraderie with Emmett, Bella and Jasper were perfectly in sync. Even now, as they walked together, they matched eachother perfectly: Jasper's confident saunter and Bella's smooth, seductive lope were exactly the same movement, the same motion.

"You have any hits that require your immediate attention?" Jasper asked.

"None," Bella said carelessly. She didn't feel like leaving the base again. She'd taken eleven hits in the past week, and she felt entitled to a bit of a break. Besides, her targets weren't going anywhere today. And if they were, she had more than enough money on her person right now to buy a plane ticket. She sighed, and added, "But I probably should check the lists, just in case. Wait for me, will you?"

Jasper nodded. "I'll wait," he said amiably. "If you're free, come to Pike Place with me. My next hit usually has a coffee in the little café at about four o'clock. I wanted to study her."

"Her?" Bella asked, interested. Female targets weren't unheard of, but they didn't come around often.

Jasper nodded again, his face indifferent. He, like everyone else, had quickly become detached from any sympathetic feelings for his targets.

"Give me two minutes," Bella ordered, and strode down the hall toward Carlisle's office.

His door, as always, was open. Bella drew back a little, knocked lightly on the wall just outside the doorway to announce her presence. Carlisle looked up from his papers.

"Hey, Carlisle." She flashed him a smile.

"Bella." He waved her inside the room.

She looked around at the shelves of books and weapons interspersed along the walls of Carlisle's office. He didn't seem to have any problem with his surroundings. She had always marveled a little bit at Carlisle, not because of his astonishing good looks, but because of the ease with which he seemed to regard anything that came along. It was why the members of the _Vindici _much preferred to work with him than Aro, who was imposing and eerily kind. Carlisle rarely showed any kindness to any of her peers, but underneath the steely authority, they could all sense it was there.

"Any new people you want me to kill?" Bella asked cheerfully.

"Yes," Carlisle replied, unphased as always by her attempt at irony. "Three of them. Lucky bastards, I was thinking about sending Embry instead."

"Wise decision," Bella teased. "But, hey, Carlisle, can the lucky bastards wait a while? I thought I might take a day off."

Carlisle raised his eyebrows.

"Eleven hits," she reminded him, tilting her head pleadingly to the side.

Carlisle nodded slowly. "You've done well," he allowed. "I'll give you two days. But after that, back to work. And no more throwing numbers in my face. I'm not going to barter with you."

"I promise," Bella said delightedly. "Have you updated me? I'll go check right now."

"It's done. Get out of my office, Bella."

She quickly complied, and began making her way to the lists, only two doors down.

The lists were kept by a machine that looked a lot like an electronic Arrivals and Departures board that you would find in an airport. To the left side were the assassins' names, and to the right were the hits that had been assigned to them.

Bella found her name immediately, and scanned the board for her next three hits.

**Antonio Tendez **

**Edward Masen**

**Paul Girming **

She read and memorized the names quickly, filing them away for later. _Done_, she thought, and left the room to find Jasper.

_The next two years passed in a blur of laughter and steel and loneliness. Bella found a family in the people that surrounded her—she was proud and invincible and beautiful—she paved the road of her life with an empty, fierce sort of joy—but one of the side-effects of achieving apathy is that the numbness begins to encompass every part of you. You try to fight the utter indifference creeping over you, but in the end all you can do is hold tightly to the last shred of humanity you have left, and do the best you can with the hand you've been given. That was the way she saw it, anyway. _

_They say that the horror of your first kill never leaves, that it screams inside of you until the end of your days, and maybe they're right. But if that was true for Bella, she certainly wasn't aware of it. Killing was easy, like jumping off a cliff in the certainty of the moment after you've made your decision. The difference was, you never hit the ground afterwards. You just kept falling. _

_On Bella's first hit, she hesitated. _

_On her second, she smiled. _

_And by the third hit, she didn't feel anything at all. _

_But it would be a lie to say that nothing mattered to her. She could still feel passion—nights spent with certain male __**Vindici **__members assured her of that—and she was extremely loyal and protective of the many members of her 'family'. They were all in the same boat, after all, they had all sinned more than enough to consign themselves to hell, and they all loved eachother, because what else could they do? _

_One night, an intruder entered home base. He was young, only a year or two older than Bella had been when she first came. No one ever knew why he came or what he came for. _

_They had him surrounded, guns cocked and aimed, before he'd taken two steps out of the elevator door. _

_Letting him go free wasn't an option. He obviously understood just what he'd walked in on. They could also tell, from his righteous expression and the condemning words that immediately spewed from his mouth, that they didn't need to give him his choice. He'd already made it. _

_The other members of the __**Vindici **__contemplated the boy with faces that were expressionless, but Bella watched him with a mixture of respect and disgust. This could have been her, so easily. She had been an inch away from this young man's future…he was more courageous and blind than she had dared to be. As she stared at his indignant face, her eyes boring into his skin, she felt Emmett's hand grip the back of her neck tightly. _

_She hadn't felt sympathy of any kind for anyone outside of her family in over a year—sympathy was dangerous, and to be avoided if possible—but she felt it now to the point of pain. She knew exactly the feelings that the boy must be experiencing, despite his proud expression: the desperation, the utter helplessness, the rising panic. His eyes sought hers the precise second before he died, as if he knew exactly what she was thinking. In those eyes, those innocent, judging eyes, she felt the stamp of her own doom. _

_Garrett, tall and blonde and reckless, was the one to take the shot. It was all over in seconds, and it wasn't until Bella saw the boy wilt and fall that she realized she was shaking. Her pistol rattled dangerously; she slung it into its holster over her shoulder silently, and then she put her arms around Embry's neck and allowed him to carry her to her room. _

_Rosalie foregoed Emmett's bed that night to sleep with her arms curled around Bella's sobbing form, showing for once the affection that she always hid. Garrett spent the night leaning against the wall right outside her room, not coming inside as he usually did, listening to Bella's cries and staring at the wall. _

_There were other circumstances such as this, as often happens in an organization such as theirs, but Bella never shed a tear again. And the night came when Garrett visited her room and found that she had nothing left for him. _

_Bella later looked at these events with more satisfaction than pain. They had freed her, after all, from weakness, and also from dependency on others. Most importantly, it started the process that allowed Bella to reconcile herself to her fate. She decided that if she was going to spend eternity in hades, she might as well earn it thoroughly, and she planned on having one hell of a time doing it. _

_She loved being a __**Vindici**__, an Avenger. She loved the power and justice interwoven into her life. She was more proud and invincible and beautiful than ever before, and when Jasper came along, she was more than ready to meet him. _

_Bella had been a killer for two years when he arrived, out of nowhere, with no luggage or belongings to be seen. This didn't help his case, at first—both Aro and Carlisle believed he was a spy of some sort, or an assassin from another organization assigned to take them all out. _

_From the beginning, he didn't seem at all intimidated by the poised knives and cocked guns. In fact, his dark blue eyes brightened when he saw them, as if he knew he had finally come to the right place. _

"_You have 10 seconds," Bella said, pointedly glancing at her wristwatch. She held two fingers up, signaling the armed men around her to wait. _

_Jasper's lips eased up into a confident smile. "Ma'am," he nodded to her, mocking, the southern twang prominent in his deep voice, "you have room here for a man who can type 72 words a minute?" _

_Bella regarded him for a dubious moment. It was entirely probable that he was bluffing. There was only one way to tell. Lips pursed, she flicked a glance at Benjamin. Benjamin's wrist flipped; his knife darted across the space towards Jasper's left shoulder. _

_Immediately Jasper's torso slumped downwards as he ducked. In an impressive, startlingly quick move, his fist smashed the hilt of the long knife upwards, and the other hand caught it as it came back down. _

_Jasper offered the knife to Bella, hilt first. "I'm also great with copying machines," he said persuasively, his breathing only slightly labored. _

_For the first time, their eyes met, and Bella knew that they understood eachother. She nodded, a slow answering smile lighting her face, and offered, "I'll see what I can do." _

_Two hours later, she was standing in front of Aro and Carlisle. Aro was smilingly furious at her for not having killed him immediately. _

"_You go too far, Bella," he said simply. "This is a breach." _

"_It might not be," Bella argued, her eyes anxiously glued to the warning curve of his dark lips. "Emmett did this for me, remember? He saved me when everyone else wanted to kill me. And because he did, you got one of your top killers. Why not let him do it again? Emmett can—"_

"_I say we give him a two month probation," interrupted Carlisle, who had remained silent before this. "We can research him while he is trained, if he's on the other side of the line, we'll find out. At the end of his review, like Bella's, you can make your decision. Which I will honor." To Bella, it seemed like he said the last sentence bitterly. _

_Aro, who had paused for Carlisle's words like he never paused for anyone else, cocked his head introspectively. "That sounds…reasonable," he finally said. "I like to be reasonable. It makes one's life so much less difficult. But you, Bella," his dark eyes dropped to meet hers from under finely arched black brows, "__**you **__will have the training of him, since you have defended him so valiantly. He is now your responsibility. If you train him well enough and we find that he is not an assassin from another organization, then he will live." He paused. "Does this work for you? If it doesn't, now would be the time." _

"_Yeah," Bella whispered, her stomach sinking. "I'm good." She thought of being solely responsible for someone else's life, and her stomach sank further. She had no idea how to do this. At killing she was an expert, but at keeping someone alive?_

"_Good luck," said Carlisle flatly, his eyes on Aro's face. _

"_You may leave us, Bella," Aro added pleasantly. _

_Bella found Jasper locked in her room, with Joe and Felix guarding the doors. She raised an eyebrow at Joe. "Locks?"_

"_So he can't get out," Joe explained self-consciously. _

_She laughed at that. "He came to us. I don't expect him to make a break for it anytime soon." She eyed Joe and Felix, who was appraising her with a speculative smirk. "Now get away from my room, both of you." _

_They slunk away, and she approached the custom lock on the door. She typed in the seven digit code used for all of the locks and keypads at home base: 4243648. The numerical code for __**VINDICI **__spelled backwards. _

_Her door slid open with a click. Jasper was sitting on her bed with his eyes on the far corner of the ceiling, drumming his fingers casually against her bedspread. He saw her at the door. "So. What's the verdict?" he asked and smiled, cavalier at the prospect of his own death. _

_Bella's mind was racing at a hundred miles an hour, quickly preparing for how she was going to have to do this. She silently crossed the room and pulled into a crouch in front of him so that they were on the same level. Her slender fingers reached up to twist the material of Jasper's collar down toward her face. Jasper looked back at her, his smile now gone, his marine eyes dissecting her expression. _

_Bella's voice was low and urgent. "If you want to live, then you'll do exactly as I say. You got me? I'll do my damndest to help you, but you're gonna have to trust me and do what I tell you to, even if you hate it." _

"_Yes." Jasper's eyes were bright with excitement. Bella could sense that underneath the cocky exterior, he was eager for a chance to prove himself. _

"_You sure? You understand that you're pretty much taking a swan dive for hell here," she warned. _

_He shrugged. "I'm fucked anyway."_

_Bella chuckled approvingly. "Then you'll fit right in, honey. Welcome welcome." _

"_You got a name, miss?" _

"_Call me Bella." _

"_Jasper," said Jasper. _

_They stared at one another once again as if they understood, not realizing yet that they were mirroring each other exactly, and then they got up and she took him to the attic and they went to work. _

_It wasn't a hard job, training him, because Jasper had a natural talent for anything martial. He had grown up in a place in the south where if you didn't know how to handle a gun, you couldn't expect to get by for very long. _

_Bella tried to employ the methods that Emmett had used on her, but with a few differences. She concentrated on working him ten times harder than Emmett had worked her, on teaching him more quickly, training him more effectively. Jasper didn't get mad easily, and he accepted most of what she gave him without complaint. He seemed to understand how hard she was trying to give him a chance. He learned, and he grew deadlier and deadlier under Bella's careful guide. The first time Jasper was strong enough and fast enough to leave a bruise on her skin, she spent the whole week with a proud smile on her face. _

_Bella made sure to point this out to Aro and Carlisle after the two month's probation. In reality, the fact that Jasper was already good enough to bruise Bella was probably the reason that they let him live. It was a long deliberating process for them, however. Carlisle, despite his earlier announcement that he would accept Aro's decision, pressed for Jasper's recruiting…Aro was cautious and reluctant…Carlisle pressed harder…Aro was even more reluctant still. In the end, Jasper was allowed to pledge his fealty to the __**Vindici**__, as Bella had, and his future was set, his life saved. _

_Bella didn't allow him to slack after that, though. She didn't really believe that Aro would change his mind—but the phrase 'better safe than sorry' rings even more true for assassins than it does for normal people. Jasper was equal to every task she gave him. The harder she pushed him, the fonder they became of each other. _

_They tried only once to go down the romance road, as it was natural for them to do. After all, their natures were so similar that they were almost exact copies of each other. Not in an 'I Am Heathcliffe' kind of way. But Bella's nonchalant fierceness was matched by Jasper's confident, easy style of lethality; Jasper's secret love for Civil War literature was matched by Bella's secret passion for old English Classics. It was obvious to Bella that whatever people's souls were made of, hers and Jasper's came from the same mold. _

_That first and last kiss came three months after Jasper became a __**Vindici**__, at two o'clock in the morning. Jasper had just killed a young man who had been a friend of his in school. Bella knew that this was probably Aro's doing, either because he thought the personal element would make Jasper more eager to take the hit, or because he was testing Jasper once again. You never knew with Aro. _

_Jasper was also like Bella in the way that he didn't express his emotions verbally. Instead, they seemed to emanate from him almost tangibly, to swing out like a cape over everyone present. Bella could feel the hollow ache in him as they sat together on his bed, Jasper's head in his hands. _

"_I'm sorry, Jazz," Bella mumbled sincerely, if awkwardly. "I wish I could fix it for you, really I do." It was true. Well did she understand how it felt when you allowed your victims to haunt you. An assassin's life was a constant refrain of the echoes of lives lost, targets hit. _

_Jasper raised his head, lifted his tired eyes to hers. He had done it many times before, but as he reached over and brushed her mahogany tresses over her shoulder, there was a deliberation in his movements that left her no doubt what he meant. _

_Bella shook her hair back, accommodating him readily. She had expected this moment to come for a long time, after all. And she loved Jasper as she had never loved Emmett or Rosalie or any of the other men, she loved Jasper as she loved herself. This was always going to happen eventually. A couple of __**Vindici **__had actually placed bets about how long it would take. _

_Bella met Jasper eagerly, and it wasn't a bad kiss at all. Truly, Jasper was a better kisser than any of the meaningless flings that she'd used to chase the loneliness away. It was a very good kiss. _

_But that wasn't what she remembered about it for months afterward. She remembered that suddenly, as she was kissing Jasper, she had the impression that she was trapped in utter blackness at the bottom of a well, with no way to escape; and the pain and desperation and panic of centuries stretched on endlessly before her. They say that you never feel closer to someone than when you kiss them, but Bella never felt so lonely in Jasper's presence as she did during that kiss. _

_They broke away from eachother, scrambling to opposite sides of the bed. Bella guessed, from the panicked and shocked expression on Jasper's face, that he had felt the same thing that she had. They looked askance at eachother, mistrusting, for a moment—not in sync as they usually were. _

_It took them a moment to calm down and unstiffen their bodies. When they had, Bella heard Jasper gasp out, "Never again," and she nodded in emphatic agreement. Then, tentatively, Jasper opened his arms. Bella went into them with relief, and clung to him tightly, letting his naturally comforting presence erase the unnatural fear he had caused. _

_They never tried anything like that again. Those months later when she recollected the fiasco, Bella understood how stupid they both had been, the way that a child is stupid in thinking that two identical puzzle pieces will somehow fit together. _

_But now that their friendship had boundaries, it only grew stronger. As the months passed—a blur of laughter and steel and loneliness, the continuing cycle of Bella's life—they became allies, partners, companions, loyal to eachother above all else. Jasper couldn't belong to Bella, and he couldn't erase her darkness, but he could always make her smile, could always keep her grounded. And in a way, he was exactly what she had needed. Because now, after years of struggling and defensiveness, Bella found herself content with the life she had chosen. _

Bella slid into the passenger seat of Jasper's '99 Mercedes. She shared a tight, exhilarated grin with Jasper, and then let herself revel in it, the adrenaline pulsing, heart pounding triumphantly, the glory of the hunt.

Yes, she loved her life. She was icy hot, lethal, unstoppable. She was Bella Vindici: Avenger, Vindicator. And she didn't plan on letting anything change that anytime soon.

**A/N: Comments? Criticism? Positive feedback? Please. Reviews are loved. **


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: The music for this chapter is Black and Gold by Sam Sparro. Checkitout. **

Chapter Three

Hand in hand, Bella and Felix strolled along the streets of Tacoma. If someone had looked out the window and spotted them—say, a little old lady who had left bed for a drink of water—she would have seen a happy couple roving the streets in companionable silence. She might have wondered why such a stroll would be taken at 12:47 in the morning, but in the end she would have been satisfied with the picture presented, poured her glass of water, and gone back to sleep.

This would have been a misconception on all three counts. Bella and Felix were not happy; they were not a couple; and they were not silent. They did not mean to be. Their deliberate steps were a mumble, a hushed word. Not loud enough to alert anyone to their pursuit, but loud enough to send a signal to the other three listening.

If the hypothetical window-watcher had not gone to sleep and observed a few minutes longer, she would have noticed that the couple kept coming back into view. It would almost have seemed that they were circling the building—

Creating a perimeter.

Even after this realization, the old lady would not have likely guessed the reason behind any of this. All eventualities would have led to her going back to bed and forgetting the whole thing, safe in unawareness of the murder that was about to be committed.

"Wait for the signal," Bella mouthed.

The quiet was cracked open by the calculated rasping of a dagger being scraped against its casing. To someone not a Vindici, the sound would be anything but commonplace. But Felix relaxed slightly. "There it is," he sighed. "Let's go."

"You'll have to be quiet," Bella said, releasing her hand from his with some relief. "No big shebang this time."

"I'll be silent as the grave," Felix chuckled, adding, "I would know."

Bella didn't even bother to grimace at the off-color joke as she quickened her stride.

"It's Joe you should be worrying about, not me," said Felix pointedly. His words had some truth to them, Bella had to admit. While Joe was one talented assassin, he was also the laziest and the most forgetful of the group. There wasn't one Vindici member that hadn't filled in for him at least once while he was caught in a drinking spell; consequently, poor Joe spent a lot of his time doing favors. Jasper had actually called one in by asking him to come with them tonight.

"He'll be fine," Bella snapped, anxious despite herself. "He knows we need this one." She shifted back to the task at hand. Daintily, she pulled out and donned her pair of gray, thin gloves—thick enough to prevent any fingerprint marks, but not thick enough to hinder her pulling a trigger.

Recruits had been necessary for this hit. Not only had Maggie O'Hanley more than sufficient means to defend herself, but she also had 6 personal bodyguards, which rotated two at a time. These bodyguards were reputed to belong to an organization from behind the lines—the Vindici only knew of three in Washington—and that meant trouble.

Maggie O' Hanley was what had started the whole problem. She had started out in aiding the organization, giving funds and passing information. Now, it seemed, she had branched out to assigning hits of her own. Many of which were directed specifically at Vindici. None of the attempts had yet been successful, but both Garrett and Embry both had bullet-wounds to show from them.

As Vindici, they were not always given all of the information. Bella didn't know how O' Hanley could win such unswerving loyalty that she now had bodyguards at her beck, and she didn't know why the doomed bitch had targeted the Vindici. But she did know one thing…Emmett had told it to her until she felt that it was permanently imprinted on her brain…_Any threat to the Vindici must be and will be eliminated at all costs. No mercy. It's us or them. That's just the way it is. _

This was a fact of life. Maggie O' Hanley would learn it soon enough.

The building had a surprisingly impressive security system. As a group, Bella, Jasper, Joe, Benjamin and Felix had decided that entering the building the old-fashioned way would take too much trouble and time. Back at home base, they had moved their objective to maneuvering _around _the building.

"_The thing has so many angles and ledges," Bella mused, surveying the map of the building on the table. "It would be so easy." _

"_Too easy?" Jasper suggested. _

"_No worries, Jasper. I'll take care of Bella," Felix promised with a wink and a smile. Slyly, he slipped an arm around her. _

"_I'll take care of __**you**__," Bella said darkly, shrugging off his arm. Her meaning was not friendly. _

"_Bella's right," Benjamin said soothingly. "It's the perfect spot for a climb-around. O' Hanley's apartment has a balcony, right? Why don't we pay it a visit?" _

"_Done." Jasper splayed his hands out on the table to emphasize his decision. _

"_Let's go Batman on her ass," agreed Joe. _

Turning a corner, their soft boots pattering softly, assuring the Vindici on the other side of the building that all was well, they reached the first ledge of their climb.

"Ladies first—" Felix started to say, but Bella had already swung up onto the ledge with a silvery laugh.

In any sort of climb, Bella was always the one to go first. Even before Rosalie, who was fifteen pounds heavier, being taller and more rounded. It was simple logic that the lighter person led; and in the case that a bodyguard was waiting for them on one of the balconies, Bella would be able to fall back onto Felix, giving her an advantage and the time necessary to take the shot.

Bella had done this several times before with Jasper, who was naturally her preferred companion on any mission. He was exactly the same as her, after all—not her other half, but _her_—and that was a comforting thought. It made it especially easy to tell what he was thinking, and even now, as she heaved her own weight over the sharp-edged face of the apartment building, Bella knew that all of Jasper's thought was bent on protecting her and himself above all else. Just as hers was.

She wished that he was here with her now, if only because of how mindlessly easy it was for them to communicate. If Jasper was here, he would be able to anticipate and flow with every move she made. As it was, it was necessary for her and Felix to hiss commands and instructions to eachother in order to survive the climb. There were no cables or ropes attached to them: they had to rely solely on harsh training, extensive experience, and eachother.

"I think they've made it inside by now," Felix muttered in a quiet aside.

"Yes," Bella affirmed. A familiar sensation was creeping over her, the one that just preceded the shot of adrenaline into her bloodstream. It gave her the strange feeling that time was standing still, and the vague impression that she was no longer in motion, though she never stopped moving.

Jasper had insisted that he perform most of the mission alone, which everyone took to mean without Bella present. Though Jasper was an adept and firmly established Vindici, his continued partnership with Bella on non-solo missions had caused some (meaning Aro) to speculate about whether or not he was too dependent on his ex-mentor.

Both Bella and Jasper knew that this was unadulterated bullshit, but for the sake of appearances Bella had encouraged him to choose different accompaniments when taking his hits. Though, as previously stated, this was awfully inconvenient for both of them.

Bella was uncomfortably aware of this fact, as Felix fumbled around her ankles on the ledge below her. She had slowed down to accommodate him, but they wouldn't get anywhere at this rate.

"That's it," she muttered. She felt Felix stiffen slightly in surprise as she suddenly exploded into motion, hurling herself over the parapet in one fluid movement. Her fingers barely curled around one of the white bars of the balcony's fence.

"Aha," said Bella.

She swung herself over the fence… looked down… chuckled at how close she had come to falling. Felix's amber eyes, dark in the faint moonlight, glared up at her furiously. "Shit—don't," he warned. He pulled himself over the bars, ignoring the sharp little spikes at the tips that scraped across his abdomen. Once he had righted himself, he looked inquisitively at the sliding-door entrance to the apartment.

"Locked?" Felix queried, studying the door. "It doesn't look like it."

Bella tried the door quietly, and was relieved when it slid open half an inch. This meant that Jasper, Joe and Benjamin had made it from the other side of the apartment, and had also had time to unlock the door for them. Things were going well.

"Alright," said Bella. "Now we fend off the cave trolls."

"Sure," Felix agreed eagerly. He flexed unconsciously, and Bella absently watched the ostentatious bands of steel around his arms tighten. She had often thought of Felix as a shark: not the most intelligent of beings, but strong as hell and ferocious.

She mentally calculated how much time they had before Jasper took the hit, and planned her maneuver around the building within those bounds. Maggie O' Hanley's apartment was one of the most expensive suites of the building, about the quarters of the way up, and it one of the two apartments that had a balcony wrapped around the whole perimeter of the building. This made it easier for Bella and Felix—but also made it easy for O' Hanley's supposed bodyguards.

Felix glanced down at her, and she guessed that his speculations were running along the same line as hers. The one good thing that would come of the bodyguards being present tonight was that the Vindici would be able to guess which assassin's organization had targeted them.

"Come on, Bella," Felix urged, and Bella noticed that his warm-toned Greek features suddenly looked much calmer, in control. "Gotta go."

The adrenaline was pumping strongly now, and Bella used the energy to stiffen her resolve, make herself more focused. She pulled her body towards the corner of the building that would open to the rest of the balcony; she pulled a pistol out of the inconspicuous holster at her hip, hidden underneath her gray v-neck sweater. She checked to make sure her hair was still bound in the tight bun, assurance against strands of her DNA being left. "Yeah," she said quickly. "Cover me, please."

"I've got you, Bella," Felix said with uncharacteristic earnestness, his deep bass voice reassuring.

Bella felt a sudden out-flashing of gratitude and affection for her Vindici brother. _This is what it's all about_, she thought. _This is my family. _She half smiled at Felix, then swung her gun-arm around the corner and darted after it.

_Bella and Emmett stood together in front of the target section in the attic. A low torrent of deadly voices sounded around them: others practicing. _

"_Always lead with your gun," Emmett counseled her. "Always be aware of it. It'll save your life a million times, but it'll also kill you if you're an idiot."_

_Bella batted her eyelashes at him. "It's a good thing I'm not an idiot, then." _

_Emmett grinned at her, but continued his cautioning. "We walk a thin tightrope, honey," he said. "It only takes one time, one mistake, and then you're done. You know how it is. None of us are going to get old and start families. Most of us won't live past thirty-five, actually." His voice was a little wistful, and Bella recalled the look of longing that flashed on Rose's face whenever they passed a stroller or a car seat. _

"_In that case, we'd better take down as many of the 'worthless fucks' before we go," said Bella fiercely, quoting the term that Emmett had used during their first shaky conversation. By way of proving her point, she sighted the target, raising her arm just below shoulder-height, and took aim. The exploding report that sounded from the gun was commonplace among all of the shots being fired around her. Bella took a step back, then slowly raised her eyes to the target, an expectant smirk lining her lips. _

_Of course it was a bull's eye. _

"_I told you it would get easier," said Emmett. She felt his bear paw hand settle gently on her shoulder. She looked up at him, the empowered smile still on her face, but he didn't smile back. His face as he looked down at her was somber, almost guilty. _

Bella's sharp eyes scanned the darkness as she moved, her trigger finger held in rigid control. Felix ran beside her, his stride longer and faster than hers, his own gun brandished competently in one hand.

After making sure that there were no hit-men lurking around the balcony, they visually secured the area around the building. The apartments were at the edge of the city, just fringing the forest. As she looked out, the winter-bare tree branches seemed sharp and rust colored in the scanty light.

"There's no one here, dammit," said Felix, visibly disappointed. "It's too bad. We would have taken them easy." He flashed Bella a rueful smile. Then, brightening, "Let's go watch the fun."

They slunk quietly across the balcony floor, smooth and supple as cats, and kept their shoulders as close to the wall as possible. This was the time to be quiet and careful. From substantial past experience, they knew that now would be the perfect time for an ambush if there were others watching.

Bella had been tuning out the voices coming from around the corner so as not to erase her concentration. Now, she paused and listened, assessing the situation. She could hear the shifting of one two three four pairs of feet. Felix, several feet in front of her, crept slowly closer to the edge of the building's third corner.

"You're wrong," said a female's voice, lilting with an unfamiliar brogue that Bella took to be Irish. Maggie O' Hanley, of course. "Ah, God, this is wrong. You don't understand!" Her voice rose in sudden panic—Bella guessed that Jasper had just put the gun to her head—"Demetri! Edward! _Where are you_?"

At the moment that Bella heard the second name, she felt a strange consciousness creep over her. She became very still; her muscles stretched taut; she was involuntarily leaning forward. For a moment, an alien part of her seemed to be gushing onward, accelerating, wild with yearning—hastily she pushed it back. With a quick breath, she reestablished control over her body. She was left undeniably shaken, however, and a nagging sense of confusion as to the reason why settled in the back of her mind.

Felix's expression mirrored her confusion. He was looking back at her, head cocked, gauging her body language. Suddenly, his head snapped up. Bella's did as well, her eyes unfocusing but her ears perked up. There was something new, a new sound…a new pair of feet. Bella's hair stood on end, and she felt the tingling return of adrenaline.

"Felix," she whispered.

He drew his hand back, gripped her upper arm, preparing to leap ahead and pull her with him.

The gun sounded. Bella swerved free of Felix's grip, tore forward—

Knives scraping out of their sheaths—

Desperate footsteps—

"Bella!" Benjamin shouted.

She rounded the corner—

Jumped—

Pressed her blade against his throat.

For a moment, Bella took everything in. The man she had at dagger point was tall and dark, with the same coloring as Felix. His long black hair was bound in a loose ponytail. Obviously no fear of leaving evidence, here. She guessed that this was Demetri.

On the ground several yards from them, Maggie O' Hanley's body lay still twitching on the ground. Her short fiery curls were matted with blood, her ruddy highland features permanently twisted in shock and pain. Bella gazed on her face and felt a pang of satisfaction. There might have been a few complications…she twisted the dagger closer to the assassin's jugular vein…but the job was done. The witch was dead. Ding, dong.

In high spirits, she lifted her face to meet the Demetri's stony glare with an engaging smile. "Gotcha," she teased.

Jasper stood a few feet along the balcony, blowing the smoke from his gun. Bella lifted her chin, their eyes met, and she ordered silently, _Disarm him_. She knew that he would understand quickly; when Jasper wasn't in complete sync with her, he was only just half a pace behind.

Jasper waved Joe forward, and together they relieved him of three knives, a hatchet and two shotguns. It was nothing special, and he had obviously not given extra care to arming himself tonight. Which meant that the Vindici had not been expected as guests.

Jasper took one of the closed knives, snapped it open, and ripped open Demetri's sleeve. They were all crowded together now, they all knew what he was doing, they were all eager for the mystery to finally be solved.

Jasper pulled the cloth back to reveal, at the tip of the man's left shoulder-blade, the tattoo of the letter _S. F. _

The Vindici tensed in understanding. Benjamin and Felix uncomfortably fingered their own left shoulder-blades, where a very different insignia had been tattooed. Bella herself was very aware of the imprinted V at the small of her back.

_So this is them, _she thought. _We should have known. _It was the _**Scopo Finale**_, the only other assassin's organization that had an Italian name, based in Bellevue. The meaning of the insignia was just as dramatic as Avenger or Vindicator, if not more: _**Scopo Finale**_, translated, was the _Ultimate Purpose_.

"Well, let's get it over with." Felix's voice was grim. "We all want to go home."

Joe stepped forward, murmuring, "I've got him, Bella." Bella slid away from Demetri, allowing Joe to take her place, and slid her dagger into the crisp leather pouch at her neck. She moved away from them, toward Jasper. He took her hand; she squeezed once, felt his pressure in response, and let go. A light drizzle brushed against the nape of her neck.

She watched with hazy eyes as Joe forced Demetri to his knees, then looked up expectantly. "Someone finish him," he said simply.

Jasper started forward, but Felix waved him down. "I'll do it," he insisted. "You've already got one under your belt tonight." He advanced, cocking the pistol with large, capable fingers.

"Any last words?" Benjamin asked indifferently.

Demetri stared straight ahead, eyes blank with resolve, and said nothing. Bella knew that she would probably do the same thing were she in his position. What would one say, at the hour of death, to one's sworn enemies? And what difference would those words make? Who would remember them? Bella understood that there was nothing left to say. For a second, she admired him.

During that second, the fact that he was kneeling fully registered for the first time. Her mid rebelled.

"No—let him stand," she commanded, her voice soft and low with conviction.

An assassin should not die on his knees. She knew this, felt this firmly. After shattering his innocence, after shattering himself, after selling his soul to the devil, after sacrificing everything, after hating and being hated, as they all were…an assassin should remain standing as he died. He deserved it. He deserved to stand until the very moment that he was rejected at the pearly gates.

Joe looked at her uncertainly, not bothering to hide his irritation and confusion.

"_Do _it," Bella snapped.

Her tone worked wonders. Joe stepped back smartly, pulling Demetri to his feet. The assassin stood, his _S. F _still plainly visible, and looked at her with inscrutable eyes.

Felix paused, gun already aimed between Demetri's eyes, his head inclined with a sort of mocking courtesy. "I await your signal, madam."

"Okay, go," Bella sighed.

A gunshot pierced the night—pierced the crisp, cold February smell of the air, pierced the silence, pierced the very darkness.

That was when everything went wrong. Like the steely scream of a trains colliding, like the screech of a record jumping off its track, the scene before her made Bella's mind shy away.

Though a gun had been shot, Demetri still stood tall and erect with a look of breathless relief on his face. Never had a man looked more decidedly alive.

A gun had been shot.

Bella watched, immobile with repulsion and horror, as Felix crumpled to the ground, a bullet through his neck.

The wrong gun.

Slowly, as if in a dream, she turned and looked along the alleyway of the balcony. There, sharply outlined in the yellow light of the balcony's corner lantern, the shape of a man was visible. As he pocketed his gun and turned, Bella's eyes caught a flash of bronze hair.

"_Bella," said Emmett, "I'd like to introduce you to my friend Felix. Felix, this is my protégé, Bella." _

_Bella sat on the sofa, tucked her legs under her, and looked between Emmett and Felix. Except for Felix's darker skin and lighter eyes, they were almost exactly the same, down to the last rippling muscle. "Oh, God, not another one," she said. _

"_Another one?" Felix chuckled, though he looked just a tad resentful at her observation. Bella identified it as the indignance always sparked by being compared to a rival. "No, not me. Emmett's got his own thing going." His eyes raked over her with interest, a cocky smile forming on his face. "So, Rosalie has a bit of competition, huh?" he asked casually. _

_Emmett and Bella both glowered at him. _

"_Don't be insulting," Bella said. _

"_Keep your mouth shut, Felix," Emmett growled. "Rose is already sensitive enough without—" He paused, seeming to register what Bella had said. "Hey!" he protested. _

_Bella laughed, and Felix brightened. _

"_You'll forgive me," Bella promised. _

"_Probably." Emmett looked over at Felix, checked at his appraising eyes and smug expression as he watched Bella. "She's hands off," he warned, and Bella felt a little warmer at his protective tone. _

_Felix ignored him and continued to smile at her expectantly. "I think you and I are gonna get along just fine," he purred. _

"_He's lying, Bella," Emmett said darkly. "You're going to hate him." _

Bella didn't even think to mourn for a moment. Her only aim was vengeance.

She and Jasper bounded forward within seconds of eachother. Bella drew her pistol with a calm, concentrated fury. She didn't allow herself to skid around the corner, but took three light, quick steps around it that left her stride uninterrupted. Her soft boots hushed the pounding of her feet against the cement, and for once she wished that they were louder, that Felix's killer would _hear _her hunting him.

Jasper echoed her silence, but she knew that if they spoke, their words would be the same: _Make him pay. _

The edge of the man's coat flapped around the next corner. With vicious precision, Bella aimed and fired, leaving a searing hole in the piece of clothing—just to give him a taste of what was coming.

She could hear Joe and Benjamin flying on the other side of the balcony. They had unconsciously agreed to take the man from both sides. Joe and Benjamin were coming closer…closer still…no further sign of the assassin.

"Oh, no," Jasper muttered, pulling up short. "God _damn _it—"

They were too well trained to run into eachother, but it would have been just as well. Benjamin and Joe hissed in fury for a helpless moment. Then they looked over the edge of the balcony and aimed their weapons again. Felix's killer had attached a cable to one of the pikes of the balcony, and was now disappearing into the forest, Demetri in front of him.

Bella aimed one good shot at him, her last desperate attempt; the bullet sank into a tree inches from him.

The man turned around and faced them, hands on hips, a gesture of such absolute defiance that Bella lost her rigid control.

"You bastard, you _bastard_!" She shrieked, mindless with pain and rage. "Burn in _hell_!"

She drew the dagger at her neck from its pouch and hurled it deliberately at his feet—not to kill, but in the timeless gesture of deadly promise. The man stood there a moment longer, then vanished into the trees.

"We can't track them," Benjamin said quietly, stating the obvious. "They probably know this spot like the back of their hands. They'd ambush us easily."

"Let's go home," Joe decided, his voice hollow.

Bella followed silently. Her uncharacteristic explosion left her feeling raw and sore and empty and cold, as if she only had so much emotion left in her and she had wasted it. Every episode like this brought her closer to becoming completely senseless, a robot, a killing machine.

She didn't turn to Jasper for comfort. They stayed away from eachother. Just as with that first and last kiss 8 months ago, whenever they felt any sort of strong emotion, they disgusted one another. In the morning, they would be closer than ever. But she couldn't look at Jasper now.

_We have two bodies to take home_, Bella thought numbly. She tried to picture the faces of her family when they saw what had happened, but for some reason she couldn't. Just like that broken record, she was playing the same thing over in her mind again and again.

The hateful image of the man's bronze hair; and the name _Edward_.

**A/N: Please please please review. Begging? Yeah. Seriously, you guys, I can't grow as a writer if you don't help me. Please please. **

** --Poola **


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Sorry this one took so long. I really hope you enjoy it--this is the first time we'll see Edward for real. The inspiration for this chapter was One Headlight by the Wallflowers. **

Chapter Four

_Two months after Felix's death_

"You're like an angel," Bella sighed.

"Sent from above," Tully agreed, rubbing a little more ointment onto Bella's shoulder. The throbbing sting of the deep cut had long since been erased. "You're one lucky chick, honey."

Around them, the babble and coo of healers' soothing voices mixed with the strained words of other wounded assassins. There was an eerie contrast between them: the people whose only goal in life was to calm and restore, and the people who now sought a brief respite from the pain of killing.

"I know it," Bella admitted. She hopped down from the hospital cot she had been seated on. She stretched and rolled her shoulders tentatively, then looked up and smiled into the healer's wide, concerned blue eyes. "Hopefully you won't see me again for a while," she added lightly.

Tully gave a hoarse laugh. She reached out and patted Bella's good shoulder with an aged, gentle hand. "Yep, keep out of my sight," she said. After a moment, the twinkling in her eyes died and the concern returned. "But be careful, Bella. And don't stay away _too _long. After all, these visits prove that you're alive."

Bella had allowed Tully's caress patiently, but her voice was a bit more stiff than before when she replied, "Tully, I'm a hatchet. _Careful _isn't the word you'd use to describe my profession."

She forced out another careless smile, then turned and left the Healing Quarters.

As she passed through the halls, she heard a call of greeting from Garrett.

"Hey, I need to find Carlisle—is he in the office?" she queried, trying not to meet his eyes. Garrett was not the only member of the Vindici that she had a romantic history with, but he was the only one that had fought for her after she ended things. Even two years later, the residual awkwardness was noticeable whenever they spoke to one another. Bella always had the uncomfortable feeling that he was recalling what she looked like naked.

"Nah, I think he's in his room," Garrett said quickly. "Want help finding him?"

"I'll figure it out," declined Bella, just as swiftly. "Thanks, though."

"Sure. I should probably be checking the lists anyway." He grimaced ruefully.

Unsettled, Bella turned and headed towards Carlisle's room. She had felt a pang of envy when Garrett mentioned the lists, tinged with desperation. Checking the lists was a luxury that she had lived without for almost two months.

Carlisle's room was set apart from the dorms of the other Vindici, located in the upper east wing of the building. When Bella reached it, the area was characteristically silent. This was the one place that Carlisle could usually come for some peace. Before, Bella had respected his privacy and stayed away, but today nerves and frustration had erased whatever tact she had left. This was an emergency.

The door to Carlisle's room was slightly ajar. She nudged it forward, and looked around at the bedroom for the first time.

There was no professional-looking desk here, no intimidating files and stacks of papers. There were no weapons visible, either—Bella guessed he had hidden a few—the only similarity she saw to his office was the shelf of books by the bed. Even with that similarity, the entire atmosphere of the room was different. Calm. Hopeful.

This wasn't what struck Bella when she first looked in the room, though. What struck her with an aching horror was the sight of Carlisle kneeling in front of an unadorned wooden cross on the wall, his tawny head bowed in prayer.

"Hypocrite," she spat.

Carlisle didn't even turn around. "You're very young, Bella," he said simply. "I'm not."

This only fueled Bella's anger. "Funny, I wouldn't have pegged you for a holy man," she replied icily. "What with the daily murder that you sanction, and all that."

He twisted round to face her, still keeping his spot on the ground. His face was just as hard and controlled as ever, but there was a tender pain in his eyes, a sort of exhausted sadness. "It wasn't always like this," he said quietly. "_I _wasn't always like this. I remember, growing up—" he smiled grimly, "—I wanted to be a doctor. I wanted to save people's lives. To _save _them."

Bella fought back the tiny well of sympathy that had sprung up, and kept her voice mocking. "And that was before the world went bad, was it?"

"No, the world never changed," he disagreed. "I just began to see it more clearly."

They both tensed when they heard footsteps echoing in the hallway. Carlisle's eyes flickered to the bookshelf.

Embry half entered the room, then paused when he saw Bella and leaned against the doorway. "Hey," he said, his dusky face relaxing in a slow grin, "I'm not interrupting anything, am I?"

"No," Bella explained flatly, "the Good Doctor was just regaling me with his life story." Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Carlisle's lips quirk up at the reference.

"Sounds pretty intense," Embry observed. "Well, my problems can wait for something like that. Carlisle, I'll find you later." He ducked out of the room and closed the door behind him, disappearing just as speedily as he'd come, and they listened to the sound of his retreat for a moment.

Finally, Carlisle sighed. "I know you didn't visit my room for the first time just to talk religion with me. Tell me what you need, Bella."

Banishing her own traces of nervousness, Bella began, "I've been tracking my hit for a little under two months now."

"Edward Masen. That's not the longest you've taken to kill a target," Carlisle noted. "Why, has he become a problem?"

Yes, Edward Masen had become a problem.

"No, of course not," said Bella. "He's just a bit tricky—I think he's going to take a little more time. And I hate not feeling useful. So I came to ask you to start updating my schedule again."

He raised his eyebrows.

"Other Vindici take more than one hit on all the time," said Bella defensively. "Emmett, Benjamin, Rosalie…"

"But never you," countered Carlisle. "I don't like this, Bella. You've never been lazy before. I'll ask you again, is this man a problem? Maybe tracking Felix's killer is getting too personal. I can easily assign him to someone else."

Bella's eyes flashed at him, her temper rising. "You are insulting me," she accused. "This is _not _laziness. And when has anything ever been too personal for me? I told you, I'm trying to be proactive. I can take out hits more quickly this way. Now, are you going to open my lists or not?"

He listened to her with his head tilted to the side, his brows and lips tilted in a deciphering frown. His eyes scrutinized her face as he took in the sharpness of her voice.

"You're very defensive," he remarked.

Bella looked at him blankly, waiting.

"Of course I'm going to do it," said Carlisle, seeming to shake himself out of a reverie. "You're one of our best, Bella. But you need to focus on this one. I think Felix would demand it, if he were here."

She had no feelings of guilt concerning Felix's death—in truth, she felt nothing at all about it. The hateful outburst of that night had left a convenient numbness in its wake. Bella felt no pain, no trace of hurt, only an awareness of the toll of vengeance.

Technically, she was perfect for the job.

"I threw my dagger at his feet," she reported. "He knows I'm coming for him." Preparing to leave, she glanced around the room once more. Her gaze was drawn automatically to the cross; it dominated her vision.

"How can you do that?" she asked, her voice soft, no longer challenging but honestly curious. "If He does exist, he hates us. You know we're going to hell. You _know _we're going to hell."

Carlisle stood and held the door open for her. He was smiling, smiling wisely, recklessly, the first real smile she'd seen on him all day. "The quality of mercy is a strange thing, or so I've been taught," he said. "I might as well hold on to whatever sense of happiness and purpose I can get. And if He _doesn't _exist," he moved to close the door behind her, "then we're all screwed anyway."

_The first time that Bella tried to kill Edward Masen was on a day that would probably go down in the history for its unpredictable weather. As opposed to Seattle's usual fare—gray clouds and damp streets—that day was made up of a continuous cycle of hail and 70-degree sunshine. _

_The sunshine was taking a turn when she spotted him, and the scene was almost perfect. He was leaning against the wall of an alleyway that was almost empty, (a couple was passing through quickly, eying him dubiously) apparently waiting for someone. __**Whoever he's waiting for,**__ Bella thought, __**they'll probably be surprised at what they find when they get here. **_

_She had used an elevator and climbed quite a few ladders to get to where she was. She stood on the roof of the building directly opposite of the alley. Truly, she had orchestrated this hit almost flawlessly: as well as being within direct shooting range of her target, the building had several ledges below that she could utilize if she missed. _

_Her movements fluid and deadly, Bella began to place her Chey-Tac long range rifle on the corner of the parapet, all the while playing with a blade between her fingers. She strapped it quickly in place, checked the scope—_

_Edward Masen's stance changed suddenly, and his face lifted, searching. Bella drew back, out of his line of sight, and cautiously pushed her dark wealth of hair away from her face. She slowly lifted her chin to peek over the parapet, looking at him fully for the first time. As she did, she gave a soft gasp and the dagger fell, unheeded, onto the cement floor. _

_He was beautiful. _

_That was the word that echoed at that moment in the chambers of her mind, but Bella later realized that this was not what had stunned her. She had dealt with breath-takingly gorgeous men every day of her life for the last three years, after all. Jasper, Emmett, Garrett, Carlisle…all beautiful, all male. _

_What really caused Bella to gasp and drop her knife was the absolute magnetism that his features held for her. Never upon looking at someone for the first time had she felt such a rush of panicked yearning. _

_He was the standard of perfection that she hadn't known she had. It was as if someone had personally pulled out of her mind every male feature that she found most attractive, and caused it manifest in one single specimen. _

_The prodigious coppery-bronze of his untidy hair was the only thing that she was prepared for. Everything else about him…the sleek ripple of muscle across his body…the strong, defined jaw, the darkness of overnight stubble contrasting with the paleness of his skin…his nose, straight and perfect…the smooth double-curve of his lips…those __**eyes**__, a green that reminded her of the trees back in Forks, when their leaves were touched by sunlight…all of these served to shatter her concentration. _

_She later found it funny that despite all of her careful planning, he was the one to shoot first. _

_Bella flung herself down to the cement, her hair momentarily streaming above her as she surrendered to gravity. She slid her cheek gently against the semi-warm cement, and instantly her focus returned. _

_The problem with being an assassin is that there is seldom time to plan anything. The best way to stay alive—and get the job done, of course—is to keep yourself completely in the moment. Only then can you follow your instincts and fully sense the messages that your mind is sending. Bella was rigidly aware of this as she pulled her torso upward, curled her arms around the Chey-Tac, and pulled the trigger. _

_**He's an angel, **__she thought, completely despite herself, as the bullet whistled down into the darkness. Then, just as automatically, as she realized that she had missed, __**I'm going to kill him. **_

_She was living in the moment, yes, she was concentrating, her eyes glaring with promise into his fathomless green ones, and this concentration made surprising him easier for her. It was a simple decision, split-second, like rising from a chair on a sudden whim…except for the quick exhilaration that snarled through her body, the sense of purpose that swelled in her veins at the quick leap. _

_Within the space of a few moments, Bella had snatched an automatic from the holster at her hip and leapt over the seat of the wall. _

_She felt an odd sense of satisfaction as she saw his eyes widen. Edward stepped back, nearer to the corner of the alleyway, his body tensed for flight. Bella took quick action, knowing that there was no way she could catch him if he decided to run. The bullets spewed from her gun; she grabbed and held onto the indie-looking orange draping hanging from the ledge below her. It slowed her fall just enough to give her a bit of a swing, which brought her within a ten-foot shooting range. _

_She was more than halfway down (she was sure she had hit him at least once) when pain screeched along her right shoulder, stunning her momentarily. Her fingers slipped numbly from the orange cloth. During the few seconds before she hit the ground, Bella felt as though the air was a many armed crowd, with hands held out in a desperate attempt to keep her aloft. _

_Aghh. Pain. _

_Bella hit the ground hard, and couldn't control the moan of agony that escaped her lips as something sharp imbedded itself even deeper into her skin. Even as she pulled a small pistol out of the waist of her jeans—her last chance at killing her target—her entire arm spasmed and shook, unable to keep a steady aim. _

_Her eyes flickered upward to meet his. Later on she would think of this moment with embarrassment and frustration, she would curse herself for not killing him when she had the chance. But as she caught and held his gaze, all homicidal intentions were washed away by a new feeling. It wasn't curiosity, but something like it: something like the sensation a mountain must feel when the mountaineer's eyes first touch it, like what a lump of clay must feel when the sculptor's probing gaze discerns the true shape beneath. Bella felt, in this odd moment, the shock of recognition. _

_She didn't know this was what she was feeling, of course, and she allowed herself no time to realize it. She felt relief as logic regained dominion over her mind. Edward stood in her line of sight, his face a sort of Picasso of conflicting emotions. He seemed to be fighting both the instinct to lurch forward and the instinct to flee. His unique eyes seemed frozen on the dagger that she knew was sticking grotesquely out of her shoulder. He did not once move to shoot her. _

_**Oh, so he's a gentleman, is he? **__Bella thought, a vindictive humor curving her lips despite her heavy panting. She steadied her gun and shot once, desperate to at least leave a mark, desperate to at least leave some claim over the body that she should have already conquered. _

_Edward Masen snarled in pain and surprise, clutching at the new wound in his thigh, and Bella felt hope rising in her chest. Maybe she had a chance. She was so close to him...if she could stop him from running—_

_He ran. _

"_Fucking hell," she muttered, as she rose with difficulty. Though above the waist she wasn't looking so hot, she found her legs were working fine. She took off after him, switching the steel weapon to her other hand. Her legs pumped furiously, propelling her forward soundlessly. Three yards behind him, two yards, yes! But then he took one last look at her, bronze hair windswept, and disappeared behind the alley's corner. _

_Bella stopped moving. There was no point in following. Edward Masen had a knack for disappearing behind corners, she had experienced it before. And once again, she had failed to kill him. Down in hell, Felix was probably scoffing at her scornfully. She realized, with numb surprise, that it had begun to hail. _

_For the first time, she turned her head to appraise her wounded shoulder. Now she could understand why Edward had stared, and also understood why she was feeling so lightheaded; the wound gaped and bubbled with blood. It was hideous._

_With her left hand, still holding her automatic, she fished a small cell phone out of her back pocket. She considered her options. The two people that would be her first rescue candidates, Jasper and Emmett, were both on missions and out of state. But she knew she couldn't make it home without medical attention. With a sigh, she flipped open the cell phone, pressed speed dial number 6, and waited. _

"_Bella?" a lovely, familiar voice queried. _

"_Rose," Bella whimpered, "I need you to come get me." _

Bella moved quickly through the hallways, feeling more and more relieved as she traveled farther and farther away from Carlisle's room. Now, at least, she had actual work that she could do whilst attempting to outsmart Edward Masen. She knew that she would finish the job eventually—she always had—but the opening of her lists made her feel confident, and more like a Vindici than she had felt in weeks.

She swept past the living room, fully intending to go and practice targeting up in the attic, but one of the people lounging on the couches leapt up to follow her. It was Embry.

"You're done with Carlisle, then?" he asked.

"Yes," she said carelessly, ceasing not to move in an attic-ward direction.

Embry paused to survey her seriously. "Hey, Jasper called," he muttered, in a voice that was a little too offhand.

She stopped moving.

"He said that he needed you to meet him in Seattle," Embry continued, his broad, full lips pursed in a frown. "P.F Chang's, at 6:30. He said it was important, Bella. He sounded—weird."

At that moment, Bella's protective instincts kicked in. Though her mind chanted _**Something's wrong, Something's wrong**_, she smiled cheerfully up at him. No matter what had happened to Jasper, it wouldn't be a good idea for gossip to be spreading to Aro or Carlisle. Jasper needed to stay safe. _They _needed to stay safe.

"He's probably just upset because he missed a hit today," she said carelessly. "But I think I'll go anyway. A friend in need, right?"

"Right," Embry approved, relaxing a little. With a smile, he moved past her.

Bella did a complete turnabout, heading instead towards the parking lot. The attic, the lists and Edward Masen were completely erased from her mind; replacing them were thoughts of P.F Chang's, and Jasper.

An irrepressible sense of apprehension began to rise in her as she headed for Seattle.

**A/N: Hey, you see that pretty little review button at the bottom of the page? If you click it, you'll make a stressed-out writer very happy. Go on. I know you can do it. :)**


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: The music that inspired this chapter was Empty by Ray LaMontagne. Seriously, you should check him out, he's a very talented artist. **

Chapter Five

Bella stood in the empty bathroom of P.F Chang's, contemplating her reflection. As she had left home base in a hurry, she looked almost exactly as she had that morning. Her hair was tied in a loose bundle at her nape, her lavender v-neck clung loosely, and lazily-applied makeup emphasized her eyes and lips.

She had long since discovered that she was beautiful. Just as her clumsiness had been banished within her first month with the Vindici, so had her teenage insecurities been assessed and then discarded. In fact, she had used her attractiveness as an advantage many times before.

It is an odd study, the way that humans shape their lives around beauty. Womankind pursues it relentlessly through cosmetics…men place it up on a pedestal and flaunt it with wealthy smiles. The ugly and the maimed, who despise beauty as a general rule, secretly treasure it and hoard when it is, in small trickles, allowed to them.

As Bella looked upon her own beauty, she felt nothing but abhorrence.

She stared at the reflection in the mirror and battled the urge to scream, to tear at the lovely face until it was bloody and hollow, to shatter the glass and welcome the seven-year onslaught. She chuckled lowly at that thought. A measured period of bad luck probably wouldn't change much about her life.

She recognized beauty in general, even appreciated it in some cases. It was her own that infuriated her. That her murderer's face could gaze back at her, unblemished and calm—that her dark killer's eyes held all of her luminous beauty and none of her horror—while inside she was seething and shaking and hideous. It was impossible that her assassin's craving was not stamped eloquently on her perfect porcelain face: the automatic, knee-jerk urge to end life, and stop killing, and kill again.

Bella placed her fingertips on either side of the sink that she stood in front of. "So," she said aloud, a slightly oppositional smile curving her lips as she surveyed the mirror. "So."

She had experienced moments like this before, and she found that the longer she stared at herself, letting her thoughts wander, the more she felt like she was nearing some sort of confrontation. Invariably she pulled away when this feeling strengthened, but not because she felt the idea was crazy. She pulled away from the mirror because she was truly frightened of what would happen if she didn't, frightened of the moment that her mind, exhausted from the strain, finally took the plunge into actual insanity.

The bathroom door opened with a small moan, and Bella immediately shifted back into her 'I'm normal, Nothing to see here, Move along' persona. She leaned away from the mirror, smiled politely at the middle-aged woman who had entered, and rubbed a paper towel over her already dry hands.

**It's just as well that she came in when she did, **Bella mused. It wouldn't do for her to get too caught up in introspection. This dinner-date wasn't about her, it was about her and Jasper. Mostly it was about Jasper—or at least she thought it was—but she and Jasper had become something of a single unit over the past year. What was good for one of them was good for the other. The opposite applied, as well.

She threw her shoulders back slightly, and felt the natural Bella Vindici assurance sweep over her. Emmett's words echoed in her mind, _The Vindici is what matters, what should be sustained at all cost. Protect your family. _

Jasper was family, was more than family, and she was going to protect him.

She exited the restroom, which was right next to the front desk, and smiled gracefully at the man who welcomed her. She didn't mind they way he looked her up and down. As long as he didn't touch her, she wouldn't touch him.

"Reservation for Jasper," she said politely, trying to sound human. **I'm normal. Nothing to see here. Move along.**

She didn't use his surname. This was a sort of Code of Ethics within the Vindici. Last names were never broadcasted; the families of the hatchets were never involved. Bella was certain, however, that Aro or Carlisle had given her a thorough background check when she first arrived. Neither of them were very big on respecting privacy.

Jasper had told her his last name in confidence, along with most of his history, but it was almost laughable to think that she would expose him like that. Who was more precious to her than Jasper? Who would she possibly tell?

"Right with me, please," the man said.

She followed him to a small booth that curled around a table instead of using two opposite benches. Bella slid to the middle of the cemi-circle, ordered for both her and Jasper, and relaxed into her leather seat. She listened to the babble and laughter from the surrounding tables and took it as a good sign. It meant that they would be able to speak with less restraint.

Bella waited, patient. Right now Jasper was probably checking the building for possible threats or other Vindici. She hoped that he was thorough—it had been a while since she'd taught him.

Jasper swept into the room with the same style Bella had, which was normal. But Bella saw an odd gleam in his eye that she hadn't encountered. Despite the smooth confidence, he actually looked a little shaken.

She frowned.

Jasper slid into the booth easily, sitting in the space right next to her instead of the one opposite of her. "Bell," he muttered in greeting, gripping her left hand tightly in his.

His voice was off, as well. It was rough and distinct, not his usual lazy Southern drawl. Her eyes lifted to meet his dark blue ones, and were startled to see the intensity in them. His face was happy, too, almost madly so…he seemed like he was on some kind of high.

"Tell me," Bella ordered.

Jasper's lips pursed into something exactly between a frown and a smile. "Are you sure?" he asked. His tone made the question a loaded one.

She pulled away slightly, confused and a little frustrated. Instantly, he tugged her into him again, closer than he had before. He gave a sad, repentant laugh, speedily changing mood. "No, don't," he said. "It won't be much longer."

Every word he said increased her growing sense of alarm. It was unlike him to have the upper hand in the conversation; unlike either of them, really. Before, they hadn't even needed words to know exactly how the other thought and felt. Today, she felt his emotions as clearly as ever, but was helpless to understand the reason behind them.

"Tell me," she repeated, a little more firmly.

Jasper sighed, running a hand through his sunny hair. "I met a girl, Bell."

"You…" For a moment, she couldn't register his words.

"No, those aren't the right words," he mumbled, shaking his head again. "_The _girl. I met _the _girl, Bella."

"_The _girl," Bella echoed mindlessly.

Jasper nodded. "It sounds silly, but it's more—accurate."

Bella stared at him, finally forcing herself into comprehension. "It sounds ridiculous," she corrected bluntly.

Instead of taking offense, Jasper smiled. And Bella noticed that, for the first time, there was a note of condescension in that smile. "You don't understand," he informed her, and this was another first. They had always understood one another, she had always been completely in tune with him. That was the beauty of _them_.

"Make me understand," she said, keeping her voice even and calm.

Jasper took a deep breath, a swimmer about to take a dive, and began.

"I'm in love. She was a special target—Aro himself assigned me to her a couple of days ago. I found her last night in Bellevue, she knew I was going to be there. 'Took you long enough,' she said. And Bella, I couldn't do it. I just dropped my gun, because I _knew _who she was. She's not at all what I expected…I always saw someone like you in my mind…but she's perfect, and she's mine. Oh, Bell, I can't even tell you—" Here he broke off, as the waiter had arrived.

They ordered their meal, their voices quiet and tense. Jasper's marine eyes searched her face for judgment or support, but she kept her face unreadable. She stared back at him, searching his features in turn.

There was no way that she could doubt he was serious. The very tone of his voice erased any doubts of sincerity. And she wasn't so far out of sync with him that she didn't know what his plans must be now. She understood why he had taken so long searching the building. Vindici had turned into his enemies—she had turned into his enemy. Bella found, as the waiter left, that she was now clutching Jasper's hand as tightly as he was clutching hers.

"So you're just going to leave?" she whispered, glancing around the room for any newcomers she recognized. "No one _leaves _the Vindici!"

"I already have," he answered simply. Bella, though he had curled her tightly into his body, felt a precursory pang of loneliness. Though she and Jasper had never been romantic, they had always been possessive, and now Bella felt, along with the faint sting of rejection, that her strongest safety blanket had been ripped open from under her. Jasper had been her solace and her companion this past year. He had been her deepest friendship and her closest relative. There was no way that she would ever be able to replace this man.

Jasper tilted his head, reading her thoughts in a way that was more characteristic of him than anything else he had previously displayed. "I want you to know," he said slowly, "that if it had been anyone but her, I would have stayed for you. I would have killed anyone else in the world to keep you with me and safe."

The words weren't as reassuring as he had meant them to be, but she smiled for him anyway. "We always knew that we wouldn't work out together in the end." She added, knowing that she would never have said this to him under any other circumstances, "But you are…very dear to me, Jazz."

Jasper squeezed her hand, their old gesture of comfort and solidarity. Their meal arrived, and they descended into silence as they began to eat. Their movements shadowed eachother in slowness, for they both knew that the end of this meal would mean the end of any further correspondence.

"So," said Bella, "what's her name? What does she look like?" As of now, she couldn't picture any companion of Jasper other than herself, and she wanted some kind of image to keep for her imaginings of his life in the future. Would there be a dainty blonde at his side, or a leggy brunette? God, would he fall for a redhead?

Jasper shook his head with an edged smile. "Oh no, you don't," he muttered, his voice close to her ear. "I know that as soon as I gave you her name and description you'd be off with a gun in your hand."

"Jasper!" This was the only comment he'd made to truly shock her. Did he really think she would?

"Oh, don't look so surprised, Bell. You know I would have done the same thing, had you been in my position."

She hadn't known that, nor had she ever expected such a thing of him. This interview was telling her more about Jasper than she cared to know.

Interpreting her silence as acquiescence, he continued, in a kinder tone. "She's not as beautiful as you, if that's what you want to know. At least, by the general standard. But—I'll never be able to explain it completely—she is meant for me. She draws me. You remember, with that one kiss, how we repelled eachother?"

"I remember," Bella agreed. The pure light of joy in his eyes as he spoke made her want to look away.

"So you understand why. Or at least, as much as you can. And you know we would have been lovely together, Bella, if we'd had that kind of spark. It just wasn't in the cards." As he said the last phrase, his lips quirked into the faint smile of one recalling an inside joke.

They had both finished their meal. Jasper scooted out of the booth gingerly, still holding her hand. When they were both standing, he put his arms around her.

Bella had been saving her most important statement for last. She stood on her tiptoes, her arms around his neck, to whisper in his ear. "You know that once Aro and Carlisle decide to send someone after you, it's going to be me."

Jasper tried to pull back to scrutinize her face, but she kept her arms firmly around his neck. Finally he answered, just as quietly, "I was hoping you would give us a head start."

She tapped the hilt of the dagger tucked under his nape and pulled away, laughing gently.

"Take care of yourself," said Jasper sternly, cupping her chin in his hand. "You're very dear to me, as well. One of the dearest."

"Yeah." She touched the golden lock that curled over his forehead. "I'll miss you, Jazz."

He nodded, a look of profound regret on his face. "I'll miss you, too, Bell…" and then suddenly his face was suffused with the light that made Bella want to look away, the light that nearly blinded her, "…but honestly, I would miss her more."

He leaned forward, kissed Bella's hair, and then turned and walked away.

She didn't watch him go. She slid back into the booth, now alone, and stared at the surface of the table. She wrestled with the thought that Jasper, her best friend, her sole companion, would never enter her sight again. The image of that look on his face, the look of illuminated joy, kept replaying in her head. Bella knew that Jasper had never looked so beautiful, and also that it had not been her doing. Her breath hitched, choked on the sudden pain of isolation.

She dropped her face into her hands.

**A/N: Next chapter will be from Edward's point of view. Please review. If you do, it just might come a little faster. **


	6. The Indies

Hi, everyone.

Seriously, this is the only Author's Note-Chapter that this story will ever have. I completely know the feelings of frustration and disappointment that are caused by updates like these, so if you want to just cuss out the computer screen for a minute, that's okay. I approve.

I'm giving you readers a false update because a few days ago, to my surprise and considerable bedazzlement, I became aware that The Attic has been nominated for the Indies Twific Awards. Obviously, being one of the smaller, quieter stories on the Fanfiction horizon, The Attic is a long shot. I don't have any booming aspirations. But I want to give a thank you, sincerely, to the reader (or readers) who thought my story was worth the nomination.

I also want to voice my appreciation for you people who are willing to take the time to review and give comments, criticism, etc. You understand that the only way for an author to grow as a writer is for her/him to receive feedback. So thanks, mates. You've given me lots of giddy smiles and motivation.

The next chapter of The Attic will be coming up soon. It's in Edward's point of view, and it contains a good deal of his background, so it's taken a bit longer than I expected.

If you do want to vote for The Attic as **Best Alternate Universe Human**, go to theindietwificawards dot com. Voting starts tomorrow, July 9th. I'd really be grateful.

—Kaitipoola


	7. Chapter 6

**Author's Note: I'm very sorry about the wait. The thing is, I was planning on meshing Edward's tale into a single chapter. One month into this plan, I realized that my attempt was taking far too long, and that it would be much more logical to cut our favorite bronze-haired assassin's story in half. This is the first time I've ever written Edward's point of view--though, mind you, the teenage Edward's perspective is quite different from that of the jaded 23-year old one. So please favor me with your feedback, and enjoy. **

**--Poola**

Chapter Six—Edward's Story, Part One

_Edward, seven years ago _

"Go ahead and play, son," prodded Edward Masen Sr. with a smile. "I know you're itching to try it."

"Thanks," Edward mumbled absently. His fingers trailed slowly over the varnished mahogany of the lid of the grand piano. The wood was like silk against his hand. He moved to run his fingers over the keys and then halted, uncertain.

He turned to appraise his father. "Dad, you're sure? Do you want me to pay you back? A smaller one would have been fine, I don't need a _grand_—"

"Of course I'm sure. And what kind of idiot offers to pay for his own birthday present?" The man shook his head, running a hand over his short-cropped bronze hair.

"I'm not sixteen until the 20th," Edward pointed out, reasonably.

Edward Sr. smiled again, undaunted. Edward had always noticed that when his father smiled, his lips only tugged up a little at the corners, giving him a wistful sort of expression. His eyes, however—exactly the same shade as his son's—expressed sincere enjoyment. "An early birthday present, then. And even if money was an issue here, I'd have done the same thing. A kid with talent like yours needs a proper instrument."

"Wow," said Edward breathlessly, turning back to the piano, drinking in the luxurious beauty it conveyed. "Thanks. Wow."

"I'm going to make dinner," his father said pointedly. "And if I'm not being serenaded within ninety seconds, I'll come back in here and perform myself. Which could possibly break the piano."

Edward laughed. "Alright, alright, I'm going." He sat down on the bench and placed his hands on the black-and-ivory surface, caressing the keys. He nudged the individual keys down slightly, a quick test of the piano's pitch.

Perfect.

Finally he began to play, and there was no wistfulness or uncertainty in the notes that capered between his fingers. His hands shaped themselves around the music, not creating it but carrying it from one place to another, from the belly of the piano to the incorporeal air that now sang around him. Edward felt welded to the instrument, as he always did while playing. Felt as if he was nothing more than an extension of the keys, as if he was one of the notes himself.

People always congratulated him after his performances, beaming at him like he had done something special. It wasn't _him _that they should be paying attention to. It was the music—music, which was larger than him—music, which more than the manipulation of an instrument—music, which could express everything that anyone had ever wanted to say in a single scale.

As he ended the song, his hands lost their feverishness, and he retreated back into himself. He let out a low murmur of satisfaction.

"Well done," Edward Sr. praised from the next room. His words were simple, but neither he nor his son had ever indulged themselves in flowery speeches of approval. To the boy, Edward Sr.'s brief affirmation was something like a standing ovation.

Edward smiled, his glance flickering towards the window. A murky Oregon sunset was sinking under the mass of buildings and mountains that covered the horizon. His gaze shifted to the clock hanging from the wall behind him, and registered that it was seven thirty-two P.M.

At seven thirty-three P.M, something changed.

Maybe it was the effect of the piano, or maybe it was an inherited sort of sixth sense that alerted him. When Edward thought about it afterwards, he decided that it was probably the latter. But whatever it was, it caused Edward to quickly rise from his bench, panic expanding in his chest, his head cocked for a whisper of sound in the silence.

"Dad?" the name tumbled from his lips, childlike, the way it always had in the past when he had needed comfort and assurance.

His ears picked up the familiar, eerie _snick _of a knife being removed from its slot. A moment later, a muffled sound of collision came from the kitchen, ringing with the protest of pots and pans clashing to the floor. He heard a low laugh that was not his father's.

"Dad," repeated Edward, more quietly but also more firmly—a summons rather than a question.

"Edward—_go_—" Edward Sr. wheezed from the next room. His voice had a choking, gurgling quality that made the hair rise on the back of Edward's neck. Refusing to heed the warning and acting instead on the instinct to help his father, he moved away from the bench and darted toward the kitchen.

He had only made it four paces when he felt something cool and sharp shoved against his pulse point.

He gasped wildly and turned, the knife still at his throat. As he did, as he turned to face the man that obviously wanted to kill him, the Lord's Prayer ran desperately through his mind, dredged up from the memory of the day in preschool that he had first listened to it with hungry ears. Edward Sr. had never been extremely religious, which meant that Edward hadn't received much of a spiritual education. The words of the prayer, however, were now clear in his mind.

_Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name— _

The man who held him now at knifepoint was the owner of a bloody tux, medium build, dark hair, commonplace features, and hazel eyes that bespoke little intelligence. Edward stared at him, silently defiant, even as he gritted his teeth against the stabs of apprehension, he had heard a knife being drawn, heard fighting—clamped his teeth shut against the panicked words that threatened to rush out, even though it was probably just a matter of time until he asked—

"Where's my dad?" Edward blurted.

_Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven— _

The Man looked down at Edward with his lightless, bloodshot eyes and began to smile tightly, with bitterness. He shook his head. "Nah, kid," he disagreed, "you don't want to see him." The words seemed to slither from his mouth, leaving ghosts in the air between them; Edward felt himself beginning to pale. The rising adrenaline had subsided into a horror that raked against his insides.

"Dad!" He shouted, his throat raw with panic. He started to thrash in the man's arms, heedless of the knife that bit at the side of his neck and spread dampness across his collarbone.

"Fuck, kid," commented the intruder. His eyes were slightly nervous as he gazed at the boy's dripping neck. "I'm not supposed to kill you. Here, you want to say goodbye to your father? That's fine. We have a while to wait, anyway." He flicked another glance at Edward's neck.

"That's fine," he repeated, and steered Edward toward the kitchen. "Just don't blame me for your nightmares. I warned you, remember that."

_Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses—_

The second Edward (who was beginning to feel the tiniest bit tired) entered the kitchen, he knew why the man had warned him. The image that met his eyes now would be engrained clearly in his mind until the day he died.

Edward Masen Sr. lay sprawled on the kitchen floor, his body rocked with erratic spasms. His face, pale as marble, was hideously contorted in what could only be agony. A puddle of blood hedged the kitchen knife that was embedded in his stomach.

Several months later, Edward would be told by an over-helpful and certainly hypocritical assassin to only remember his father as he had lived, and to forget the way he had died. "Sometimes you've got to lie to yourself, son," he would say.

But how could he do it? How could he do it? Every single memory he had of his father would lead to this hideous, crowning vision: the sight of the only family he had ever known, not even able to scream, gurgling and undulating with pain and terror as his life's liquid seeped out onto the hardwood floor.

As we forgive those who trespass against us—

Edward's body sagged with shock and repulsion. His analytical mind, sluggish with shock and slight blood loss, fought the automatic swell of denial. He heard violent, ripping sobs coming from someplace near—he knew they were his own, but knew it in a vague sort of way, similar to the dreamer's hazy knowledge that he will wake up eventually.

"Disgustin'," the man said, loosening his hold on him gingerly as if afraid of becoming contaminated. "Pathetic. Esme never taught you a thing, did she? Of course not. Quit crying, kid, for fuck's sake."

The sobbing sound gradually ebbed, and Edward became aware of a desire to lash out at this man, to cut him down, to rip him until he was no longer capable of stabbing people's fathers…

He settled for words. Childish ones.

"You worthless bastard—who'd cry for you?" He resumed his struggle with The Man's arms, weakly. The arms curled around his easily, instinctively, but The Man was silent for a long moment.

"Wish Jack would get here," he finally muttered to himself, sounding a tad less unruffled than he had a moment before.

And lead us not into temptation—

"Jack?" Edward asked groggily, grabbing at a means of distraction from his throbbing head and blurry vision. The rush of adrenaline that had sharpened his dulling senses was leaving him, steadily, like the firm sweep of a plough through moist turf.

"Yes, Jack, you pathetic little orphan. He's coming to take your hide off my hands." The Man splayed those same hands on the countertop he was leaning their combined weight against, gazing down at the dark granite without much interest.

"Fuck…fuck you." Edward's neck was bleeding harder now, and his head was pounding rhythmically. His lungs were snatching at oxygen desperately, foolishly, trying to replace the precious liquid he had lost.

"Hey, now," The Man said lazily, turning his head to look at him. As soon as he had, the look on his face turned to one of horrified anxiety. "Shit," he whispered. "Aro's going to kill me."

The fact that Edward was the one dying was apparently inconsequential.

"Where am I being taken? And who are Aro and Esme?" Edward asked, ignoring The Man's eloquent commentary. His mind was sinking into a temporary state of beautiful indifference; he asked the questions automatically as he looked down at his father, his father who had laughed with him an hour ago and was now quite nearly dead, with the air of one trying to solve a puzzle.

_But deliver us from evil— _

Staring at Edward's neck, he mumbled absently. "You're going to the Hot Spot, we'll keep you there till mommy shows up. Aro is my boss, my leader, whatever. Es—" The Man's head snapped up, out of its trance, to glare at him in disbelief. "What?"

"What do you mean, what?" said Edward, gasping, bored.

"Kid, are you honestly going to tell me you don't know who your mother is?"

The gears began to move groggily in Edward's brain at The Man's allusion. He answered slowly, "I'm not telling you anything. Might as well return the favor."

But now he was laughing.

"This is fantastic," The Man chuckled, his unremarkable features folding in sarcastic pleasure. "It's even better than I thought it would be. Esme's gonna play right into Aro's hands. She's so desperate to keep you a secret that she never even contacted _you_—what's she going to do when she realizes we've found her out? How will she feel when her only son disappears?"

_(Hallowed be thy name—)_

"She won't be very pleased, will she?" replied a lovely, cold, female, displeased voice from behind them.

The resurgence of hopeful adrenaline, feeble as it was, allowed Edward to turn his head as The Man spun around.

Esme lodged a bullet into his brain before he could even reach for his belt.

_Amen. _

Edward noticed for the first time, as The Man's corpse collapsed on top of him, crushing his pleading lungs, that he was freezing. It seemed to him that the last truly warm things he had touched were the keys of his new—now far too old—grand piano.

Even Esme's hands, tenderly prying him from his spot on the blood-covered hardwood floor, made him want to shiver.

She knelt. Stricken, dazed, Edward looked into his mother's eyes for the first time. They were a young, warm cinnamon color that perfectly complemented her shoulder-length caramel waves. He saw that she was beautiful; he also noticed the gun at her hip.

"Ah, God," she murmured, just looking at him. Seeming just as stricken and dazed as he was. Gently, tentatively, her hands reached out to frame his face.

Edward was clogged with pain and death and his very soul was numb with blood loss, but he sat. He forced himself to hold still…she was his mother.

Words came again, choked and pretty as they met his ears and fought to be understood.

"Edward, my darling, I'm so sorry. God, you're so beautiful, Edward, and I never wanted you to hurt, I never want you to hurt. I tried my best to keep you safe, and I was wrong and I'm your mother, Edward. I'm your mother. You're my son, and call me Esme, and please forgive me. You're so…please, I'm so sorry."

He listened to these words, listened hard, and his mouth tried to reply but he had no voice with which to do so. So he sat, and looked at her, and listened, and thought about what he wanted to say to her.

If he could speak, Edward would say, _I know, I know and I've loved you since the day that I knew you existed. _

If he could speak, Edward would say, _I know, I know and I don't give a damn. _

Esme continued to coo and gaze at him, to stroke his hair with incredulous fingers and dab at his neck with healing ones, and still he sat without flinching. And doing so was harder to endure than everything else he had gone through that night.

Then, miraculously, a different voice came from the other side of the room. The voice was familiar and warped, less than half a voice.

"Esme."

Though the word was jumbled and unclean, spoken from the back of Edward Sr.'s throat, it was also unmistakable.

Edward watched Esme move slowly across the kitchen, to the pile of body and blood that was recognizable as Edward's farther. She stood over his body, which was still shaking feebly, and considered him for a long moment. Then she smiled, deliberately and beautifully, and bent over him. "Hi, Edward," said Esme throatily, in a fervent tone that was much more appealing than the harmless coo she had bestowed on her son.

She bent lower, so low that her lips pressed against his bloody cold ones, once, twice. Then she began to straighten, her eyes still locked on his. Edward knew that his father was seeing her, and he knew the picture she was trying to create, an angel bequeathing one last moment of happiness. As she straightened to her full height, he noted that her eyes were rimmed with moisture.

He wasn't surprised when his mother pulled the gun from her hip and emptied her second shot into a precise spot in his father's chest.

Esme stepped away, wiped her eyes once, recrossed the room, and resumed gazing at Edward. Hands on hips, she searched her son's face for revulsion. Finding none, she nodded, as if he had voiced approval. She sat down next to him, absently beginning to stroke his bloody jeans. She made a point not to touch his actual skin, which Edward appreciated.

After several minutes, he felt a gentle tug on the hem of his shirt. Esme looked away as she spoke, but even from her profile view Edward saw that the set of her features was that of a seasoned decision-maker who has made her decision.

"Your father is dead," she began, unnecessarily, but as a prelude to what she was about to say next. Edward's tongue loosened.

"Yes," agreed he, humoring her. As long as he didn't think about what he was saying, he was safe. Time to mourn would come later, when his newly acquainted mother was not present: time to mourn, especially, the fact that his father's last breath had not been used to call for him, his son, who had loved him always. Edward could not have given his father a seraph's parting gift, but he had loved him. This was, perhaps, more than Esme could say.

"In five hours," Esme continued clinically, "news that I have a son will have spread across at least two countries. The failure of your attempted kidnapping will make you an even larger target for my enemies—they are yours as well, now. This will not last very long, I promise, but it makes it necessary for your continued survival that you come with me."

Edward stared at her, and wondered mildly how much more strain his physiognomy would be able to take. "How long would this vacation last?" he asked bluntly. "Indefinitely, I suppose?"

"That is the most probable case," Esme affirmed, her words slow and cautious. "And before you ask me what this entails—I know you will, from what I see you're just like your father—you need to know that you have very limited choices. Either you come with me, adapt to my way of life, or you stay here and they kill you."

The sharpness and volume of her tone deliberately equaled his, intended to pull at him and catch his attention. He almost laughed at her.

"I don't care what it entails," said Edward honestly. "Anything is better than this."

Esme tried to smile at him, but the heaviness in her warm eyes seemed to push any attempt at mirth away. Instead, with a sigh, she expressed her thanks by running a hand once over his already-tousled hair.

"Edward," she whispered, her voice neither the businesslike monotone nor the uncomfortably-gentle babbling, but something in between, "I saw a grand piano in the next room. Is it…is it yours?"

"A gift from Dad." Edward choked a little on the sentence.

"Oh, sweetheart." Esme swiveled a little so that she was facing him, meeting his eyes with her own tired ones. "Don't ever give up your music." Her mouth twisted into a smile, joyless, bitter. "Trust me. From what I know of assassins, I think you're going to need it."

_Edward, Two months later:_

Of course she brought him into the fucking family business.


	8. Chapter 7

**Author's Note: Thanks for waiting. Last chapter was inspired by Sunglasses At Night by Corey Hart. This chapter was inspired by Something, a beautiful song by The Beatles. It's the longest one yet. I hope you like it. Please Review if you do. **

**Chapter Seven**

"Quit moping," said Alice.

Alice's appearance was striking, even allowing for her slight, diminutive body. A short mop of jet-black curls framed features so delicate they were almost otherworldly; grey eyes, startling in color and expression, added power to the suggestion of enchantment. She was airy and ethereal, graceful and quick, humming with sensitivity and enjoyment.

She also killed people for a living.

"Quitting," Edward sighed.

Alice gleamed at him for a moment, then seated herself on the couch next to him, tucking dainty feet under her. "Still brooding over a certain elusive female target, are we?"

He shot her a wry smile of acknowledgement. He had long since become used to her uncannily-accurate assessments of the state his mind was in. Aside from the knack for precognition Alice possessed, she also knew Edward as well as she knew herself. The connection wasn't unreciprocated—Edward just differed from Alice in the fact that he didn't enjoy annoying her with his observations.

They sat together in silence, rueful, comfortable.

Edward watched with hooded eyes as Don't Kill Me nudged the door to his room open and made her slinky calico way across the floor. The large, ostentatiously name-tagged, velvety feline was just as disreputable-looking as she had been when Tanya had taken her back to the Shack two years ago and begged her for a housecat.

Alice had not been pleased with this transaction. She had a low tolerance for cats, and it followed that Don't Kill Me never had much time for her. As the cat approached Edward's spot on the couch, they both ignored eachother pointedly, each secure in their own superiority.

Edward was not afforded the luxury of being overlooked by the cat. During that period two years ago, he had been spending rather a lot of time with Tanya…which meant that nowadays, though her owner was long gone from his mind, Don't Kill Me was persistently fond of him. This fondness entailed nothing more than the occasional compulsory pats and scratches, as well as a tidbit of food when Don't Kill Me (unerringly) found his legs under the table and nudged them with her nose, a patient reminder.

"Where've you been, Alice?" Edward asked, lazily stroking the cat's ears. Through the window to his left, he watched the steady gush of Bellevue highways. "I haven't seen you since Wednesday. Caius sent you out of the country again?"

Using well-honed peripheral vision, he saw that Alice had become very still.

"Edward," Alice said fiercely, fervently. Edward took the word as she meant him to take it, as a reminder of love before an outpour of bad news. He stiffened, forced himself to relax.

"Is it Esme?" Edward asked, striving to keep his voice polite. "Because if it's Esme—" He stopped short as he swiveled around to look at her.

For the first time that day, Alice looked Edward full in the face. She didn't speak; her expression said everything to someone as well-versed in her history as he.

He stared at her, taking in the fusion of excitement, joy and utter triumph on her face, flaming in her pale cheeks, and he could read what had happened in her eyes and in her movements, finally happened, an event she had promised and warned him of for years.

"Jesus," choked Edward, "please tell me you're joking."

_A jet to Seattle. A discreet-looking car waiting to drive them to Bellevue. Long, drawn out explanations from Esme, who did not yet know that the patterns she wove in the air with words like 'toll' and 'justice' would only make him sick. A simple "We're assassins," would have easily sufficed, but in the end it was just as well. _

_Edward decided, as his newfound mother pelted him with persuasive honeysuckle words he did not need, that he would never lie to himself as she was doing. About this, about anything. He would do what he had to do, learn what they had to teach him, but never would he delude himself with the notion that he was serving any 'Ultimate Purpose'. Never would he pretend to be justified in the lifestyle his mother was pushing him towards—he would face the truth head-on, like a man, like a man who knew his own mind. _

_They entered a dark building, large, half-hidden by trees. It overlooked Bellevue roads on which traffic was scarce, due to the early hour. Esme introduced it to him as The Shack, with honest fondness. He stared at her. _

_There were many people moving in the rooms that Esme led him through, not seeming to be aware of the fact that it was 1:00 in the morning. Edward noticed two things distinctly as they passed, the first being the respectful greetings that his mother received, though she spoke to no one. The second was that more than half of the people he saw here were women. _

_Caius was a tall man with small features and a cruel mouth, whose olive-toned skin clashed with the premature whiteness of his hair. He stood at the far end of an empty, bright-lit hallway, not moving, staring at them wordlessly as they approached. _

_Finally, he smiled. It was not a pleasant smile, or an incredibly intelligent one. Edward looked into his fishy eyes and was reminded of wild beasts he had come across in Oregon, dumb, fierce and calculating. _

"_Welcome back, Esme," Caius said. "You come back with more than you bargained for, I see."_

_Esme shook her head. "I got exactly what I bargained for. It's my turn to protect him now." _

"_Hmm," answered Caius, vaguely. "Let me have a look at him." _

_Esme pushed Edward forward a little, her hands tight and worried on his shoulders. It almost seemed as if she was preparing to throw him out of the way. _

_Caius came forward; his movements were strangely reptilian. His eyes were sharp on Edward, assessing. He didn't circle them, but looked at the boy from both sides, like a tradesman inspecting his wares. Edward fought the urge to hit him. _

"_Good," Caius said slowly. "Good potential. A good build. Light and speedy—much more lethal than those over-muscled weight champions." He paused, looked at Edward directly. "What's your name, boy?" _

_Edward stood still and said nothing. Considering the way his day had gone, his defiance was understandable. _

"_His name is Edward," Esme said quickly. _

"_I didn't ask you," Caius snapped. He came a little closer to Edward…Esme's hands were so tight that her nails were digging into his skin…and said, in a less brusque tone, "There's no need to be afraid. You are Esme's son, after all." _

"_Thank you," said Edward stiffly, unafraid. He hid his scorn in the hope that his mother would loosen her grip. She didn't. _

"_What's your name, boy?" _

"_Edward," replied Edward unwillingly. _

"_Good. Now, I'm sure I don't need to tell you that almost everyone in this building is an assassin. I'm one, and your mother's one: we both have been since we were 18. Yes, it's a corrupt business. Do you know why you're here?" _

_He said automatically, "I'm here because a man killed my Dad." _

"_You're here because a man wanted to kill __**you**__," Caius corrected. "If no one was after you, we could've shipped you off to a foster home. The man's name is Aro, he's got a grudge against me, and he's the most malicious bastard that ever walked under the sun. Remember his name." _

_Aro. Edward wouldn't forget. But would he be stuck here for the rest of his life? Where did this leave him? He posed the question aloud. _

"_Interestingly enough, it leaves you as an assassin. You're Esme's son, and the best way to protect you is to teach you to protect yourself." He waited for some kind of response, heard none, and smiled. "So I'd advise you to forget any other career goals you may have had. Your training starts tomorrow. Esme, I think we're done here. You know what to do with him." _

"_He stays?" Esme's voice was weak with relief. _

"_He stays." Caius turned and began to walk away._

_It was the finality of the man's tone that finally tipped Edward over the edge. His grief, horror and disgust surged forward in a tight ball of fury. He broke free of his mother's hold. _

"_**NO**__!" Edward shouted at Caius' back. _

_Caius didn't even turn around. "Yes," he said flatly, and left. _

"How long?" Edward asked her.

"Since Thursday," Alice replied.

"Alice," he groaned. He didn't want to do this now. He didn't want _her _to do this now. He needed her. He remembered when he first met her, a tiny jet-haired pixie girl who was already halfway through her training. He had looked at her uneasily, more wary of her smallness than he would have been of a giant. _"I'm Alice," _she'd said, _"and you're Edward. We're going to be a team." _

"I told you," she said gently.

Now he looked at her, twenty-three years old, still little and fairy and beautiful, a beauty that would never touch him but one that was familiar and loved. Edward saw her face, the joy on it, and looked away. He could never begrudge her this.

"Where will you go?" He asked.

_Edward and Demetri had been assigned as bodyguards to Maggie O'Hanley. While protecting jobs were not uncommon to Demetri, this was the first time Edward had been given such a mission. Usually, Caius and Esme gave him the more dangerous, high-end killing jobs. Indiscreet aristocrats, corrupt corporation owners, assassins from the other side of the line—things like that. Assignments which required more knowledge, skill and speed than was possessed by the regular assassin. _

_He liked protecting much better. Caius had hardened him into a killer, molded him until he was, at 22, the most skilled assassin in their ranks, but Edward had kept his promise to himself. He did not enjoy killing; he was not senseless; he hated what he was, and would leave __**Scopo Finale **__if he ever got the chance. Of course, he would never get the chance. _

_Maggie O'Hanley had been very kind to __**Scopo Finale**__, had been very kind in general. She was a middle-aged businesswoman who knew the reason for their way of life and was willing to spend a lot of money to protect it. She had spent the past two years collaborating with Caius in the hope of creating a base in Ireland, an international extension of __**Scopo Finale**__. _

_This did not make her an object of goodwill in the eyes of other hatchet organizations. The wish of every organization was understandably to monopolize and control the 'business', at the very least in the area surrounding its respective base. There were several large organizations of assassins in the Northwest. Maggie O'Hanley, being very rich and very supportive of an opposing team, was a prime target for all of them. _

_Protecting her was a bit of a full-time job, but it wasn't a difficult one. Edward and Demetri took 3 hour shifts: one of them would stay with Maggie in her large Tacoma apartment, while the other tread a perimeter around her 360-degree wraparound balcony. As Demetri was intelligent but not incredibly skilled, and also because Maggie wasn't comfortable with needing bodyguards (Esme and Caius had insisted), regulation and timing had to be precise and consistent. _

_In addition to being simple, the assignment wasn't unpleasant. After a few weeks their subject warmed to the idea of round-the-clock protection. She even became fond of Demetri and Edward, calling them 'me boys' in her Irish brogue and fussing over one or the other when he came in at the end of a shift. _

_Edward was content. Maggie O'Hanley was far preferable to the Shack. _

_Then one night, nippy February, Edward came in at the end of a shift to find that Maggie wasn't there. Demetri paced in the kitchen, his brow worried; it was a familiar expression to Edward, the expression of someone with the uncomfortable feeling that he has made a mistake. _

"_Where is she?" he asked flatly, already turning to go back out. _

"_No, let me," said Demetri, seeming relieved at his appearance. "She went out to look for you, seemed upset about something. I figured, since your shift was almost done…"_

"_How long?" _

"_Just three minutes. I'll go, stay here." Demetri's nervousness had caused him to forget he was speaking to a superior, and his tone was brusque. Eager to correct his misstep, he left quickly. Edward watched him go with amusement. _

_He would give him two minutes. Maggie's balcony wouldn't take much sear—_

_A gun sounded. Shouts. _

"_Fuck," said Edward. _

_He was out of the apartment in four seconds, pistol in his hand. He dove across one segment of the balcony, skidded around the corner, then slowed as he neared voices around the next bend. _

"_Bella!" a man shouted. _

_Edward's gait and breathing slowed. For some reason, his mind clung to the name, wistfully, repeating it with insistence. _

_Bella. __**Bella**__. _

"_Gotcha," said a female voice throatily. Seductive, mocking. _

_For a moment, he stood dazed, gun hanging uselessly at his side. Never before had he felt such an onrush of emotion with absolutely no cause for it. While he tried to understand, the other half of his brain concentrated on the woman's voice. __**A pretty voice**__, he thought to himself absently, __**honeyed, bluesy**__..._

_Aw, hell. _

_Finally, he shifted. Not risking a glance around the corner, he planted his back firmly against the concrete wall. Fighting the impulse to turn the corner and start shooting, he held still and listened intently. There was a clatter of metal, the sound of someone being relieved of their weapons: they had Demetri. The fact that they were taking his weapons meant that he was alive, but it also made it very likely—he hadn't forgotten the gunshot—that Maggie O'Hanley was dead. Their mission had failed. _

_Edward drew forth the rising fury, pulled it tightly around him, and expelled it with a quiet breath. He could mourn and rage later. Emotions always hindered during missions, distracted from the task at hand. Now was the time for listening and focus. _

"_Well, let's get it over with," said a deep voice quietly. "We all want to go home." _

_Sounds of rustling, and then a new voice murmured, respectfully, "I've got him, Bella." _

_Edward tabulated the voices he had heard so far, and realized that there were at least four assassins around the corner. And if he wanted Demetri to live, he couldn't take on four at once. _

"_Someone finish him," the same man suggested, and Edward heard the dull thunk of knees against stone. _

_He heard footsteps, then a pause. "I'll do it," offered the deep voice. "You've already got one under your belt tonight." The cock of a pistol rang out, and Edward cocked his own at the same time, hiding the distinctive sound. _

_His plan changed: he would only have to make one shot, at the right time, and then they would all be after him. He fingered the cable on his belt. Demetri had one of these, also. If Edward could just get them both on the ground and into the forest before they reached him, then they would both be safe. _

"_Any last words?" asked the first voice he had heard, flatly. _

_Edward tensed, his muscles coiled to spring. He had probably about six seconds before Demetri was shot execution-style. __**Just shoot the shooter, and run. Fast. **__He began to move the tiniest bit forward. _

"_No—let him stand," ordered Bella. Her voice was quiet, pained, not teasing like before. She was dead serious. Edward's lips parted in astonishment. _

_There was a silence, and Edward could sense the disbelief. _

"_**Do **__it," she emphasized. Her voice held the sudden irritation of a woman whose orders were usually followed immediately. Edward could hear Demetri's breath in the quiet, loud and incredulous. _

_Not as incredulous as Edward, though. He could hardly believe his ears. An opposing assassin, victorious, with every right to a man's head and no one to impress—acting honorably? _

"_I await your signal, madam." Said the deep voice courteously, after another moment of shuffling sounds. _

_Edward moved around the corner. Dimly, he saw all of their shapes in the darkness, unheeding, focused on Demetri and his impending death. But he didn't look closely at any of them; he focused only on the bulky man with the gun. Planting his feet squarely apart, he raised his pistol. _

"_Okay," allowed Bella, and Edward shot. _

_The deep-voiced man fell. During the split-second that no one understood what had happened, Edward caught Demetri's eye and tugged on the cables. _

_He ran fluidly, as if in a dream. Caius had made a correct assessment of his build. He was the fastest assassin on his side of the line, and apparently their side, too, because his journey to the ground was hindered only by a gunshot through his coat. Enough to make him nervous as hell, but not enough to hurt him. _

_Demetri met him on the ground, having slid down from his almost-death scene on the balcony. _

"_Who are they?" Edward asked quickly, as he caught up to him. _

"_They're Vindici," he answered, and didn't notice when his companion froze. "Edward," he continued dazedly, "how can I ever—"_

"_Go!" Edward snapped, shoving Demetri in front of him just as a bullet exploded in the trees beside them. _

_A few more paces. They were out of range, now. He turned and planted himself again, hands on hips, and he looked up at them, the gunmen who worked for Aro. Aro, the man who had killed his father…killed his childhood…_

_His defiant stance was answered by a scream from the parapet. "You bastard, you __**bastard**__." It was Bella, Bella Vindici, as he now knew she was. Her magnetic voice was broken and furious. "Burn in **hell**!" __The sound made something wrench inside of him. For a moment, he would have given much to be able to see her face. _

_It was not too dark, however, for Edward to see the knife that she hurled at him. At his feet. The blade sunk into the earth with a light thud. Traditionally, the response was to take the knife with you, to accept the challenge and return the threat. Demetri looked at him expectantly. _

_He didn't touch it. _

_He turned and moved further into the familiar forest, with Demetri following beside him. The tall, pony-tailed man was already placing a call to Esme; they would probably be back home within the hour. This was not the kind of return home that Edward had ever experienced. He had failed, unquestionably. He had failed Caius, failed __**Scopo Finale**__, failed Maggie. And, as he remembered the tremble of anguish in Bella Vindici's scream, he realized that he had failed himself. _

_Demetri seemed to pick up on this, maybe even to feel the same way, for he said, "I don't know why she's so upset. They killed our guy, we killed their guy. That's how it is in this business. That's how it's always been." _

_Edward didn't reply. _

"Do you have anything else to tell me? This is pretty much the last chance you're gonna get, doll." Using the well-worn endearment gave Edward a sad, unfamiliar ache. He looked up, and sighed in half-amused exasperation. "Alice, why are you grinning at me like that?"

For indeed, Alice was.

"I'm not telling you a thing about your future with Bella, Edward. Not a thing, so don't ask." She tugged at his dark sweater fondly, her version of ruffling his hair. "There are too many factors, anyway."

"Such as?"

Alice looked at him seriously. "If I told you everything, she'd end up killing you." She waved away the bitter, unsurprised grimace that crossed his face. "In another scenario—if I _didn't _tell you a few things, a few random things—you end up killing her."

Bravely, Edward tried to twist his grimace into a smile. "You don't have to tell me I'm fucked, Alice. I get it. Such is life, and all that."

"Shut up," she ordered. "And don't say 'fuck'. Bella swears too much as it is. I _am _going to tell you what you need to know. I've already told you a few things already, though you probably won't remember until it's convenient."

Edward tilted his head, considering her. His hand absently stroked Don't Kill Me, who lay prostrated like a dead thing in his lap, rumbling with contentment. "Okay," he said slowly. "Those random things. Lay a couple more on me."

"Mmm," replied Alice. She rubbed at her temples vaguely, slumped against the couch. "You remember that one thing your mom said to you on your birthday? And then you told me later, remember?"

"Yes." Rolling his shoulders at the awkward memory, he turned to look at her expectantly.

"Good. Keep remembering it."

"Dammit, Alice—"

"Another thing," she said, pursing her lips. They still weren't facing eachother, so she just looked at him out of the corner of her fairy-grey eyes. "Watch out for Carlisle."

_He was sixteen years old. He stared at the brand-new grand piano, much more expensive and luxurious than the one his dad had purchased for him. The keys were also colder than he remembered; though he had only owned his last piano for one night, this one seemed less friendly, alien. Just like this place. Just like the rest of his life. _

"_**A kid with talent like yours needs a proper instrument**__," his dad had said. _

_Slowly, shoulders heaving, Edward pulled his hands from the keys and allowed his head to drop onto the piano lid. His breath came in short little gasps. This was the first time he'd been alone in weeks. _

_Pain seemed to be the only constant in his life nowadays. His entire body was pierced with bruises; worse than an ache, his body was engulfed in a perpetually ripping, searing fog. "It'll get better," Irina had told him sympathetically, a tall blonde girl three years older than him. "After a while, you'll be able to do a thousand push-ups without noticing." _

_So far, he was noticing. And he was beginning to associate grief with physical pain…his process of mourning had come out all jagged, bitten at by the beatings and the mental strain. He couldn't imagine any of this ever being easy for him. _

"_But you'll be great," Alice had assured him. "A lot better than me. I love you," she'd added for good measure. Which, surprisingly enough, was comforting. It was a beautiful thing to have someone __**know**__ you, and to love you anyway, and to be willing to say it. That was one of things he missed most about his father. He would never expect that level of sincerity from his mother. _

_It was his mother who had commissioned the piano for him. With Caius' approval, of course. Esme and Caius, the ruling class of __**Scopo Finale**__. Aside from the standard training, being one of their children was a bit like being assassin-royalty-in-waiting. A position which Edward had no wish to fulfill. _

_He noticed that his playing was a little different from what it used to be; he seldom played the light, pleasing pieces now, and his technique was less tentative. He had to push the music more, test it more. He was no longer the vessel of sound he had imagined himself to be in his old life. It angered him. Edward was now a part of something that had no place in music. _

_He sometimes thought that everything good about him had died with his dad. _

"_Edward?" whispered Esme. _

_He raised his head, wiped his cheeks, and looked at her stonily. "Hi, Esme." Politely, he turned and made room for her on the piano bench. _

_She looked at the bench, looked at his face, and remained standing. "I hope it amuses you," she said, gesturing with a hand toward the piano. "I—I know this isn't the kind of life you would picture living at sixteen." _

_It wasn't the kind of life he would have pictured living ever, but he let that one go. She didn't seem to expect an answer from him, which he appreciated. For a moment, they just looked at eachother. _

"_You get more handsome everyday," Esme observed, clinically. "The women are going to flock to you." She sighed. "And there are such a lot of women." _

_He nodded. Being sixteen and not yet very interested in girls, there weren't many other responses for him to give. There __**were**__ a lot of women at the Shack, though, she was right. Apparently Caius preferred to empower females. _

"_I want you to have a happy birthday," Esme said suddenly, as if despite herself. _

"_Thanks?" replied Edward uncertainly._

"_No, I __**want **__you to," she said sadly. "I want you to be happy. It's strange for a parent, wanting to be the solution and knowing that they are the problem. Though," she surveyed him, "probably not as strange as being that parent's child." _

_He answered her shortly, bitterly. "I had 15 perfect years. The tide had to come in sometime." _

"_Perfect years," she echoed blearily. "Yes, I had one of those once." She glanced at him face, searching for his father's features. After a few moments, her gaze sharpened on him, became more focused. "You know," said his mother, "there's not a day that I don't regret bringing you in to all this." _

"_I know," he acknowledged quietly. _

"_And I honestly thought I was doing what was best for you at the time," Esme continued. "But I'm aware that I owe you, Edward Masen. I owe you happiness." Her chin lifted; this was what she had come here to say. "So that's my real birthday gift to you. If you ever need a favor, something big, something small, anything you want, you can have it. Anything at all, I'll give it to you. Don't forget. I…" She looked into his face, earnest, painful. _

_With that, as hurriedly as she had come, she was gone. Edward remained on the piano bench, his chin propped up on his hands. Her words meant little to him: he couldn't imagine unbending his pride enough to ask __**her**__ for anything. He couldn't imagine wanting anything that much. _

"You'll do fine without me," Alice promised, her voice trembling a little.

Edward saw that she needed reassurance. He drew her closer to him on the couch, tucking her little body into his own, and smiled at her. The smile held all of the quiet, honest affection that had always defined their relationship.

He would do all right, he knew. As a hatchet, he had been built to adapt. But his days and weeks would never be the same, without the dainty beaming face to look forward to at the end of them. He would miss the unasked-for advice that she was always so willing to bestow, cautioning and egging him on in good measure. He would feel as if a part of him was gone, but she was right—he would do fine.

"I hope you'll do alright without _me_," Edward replied, frowning. How many people would she have to kill to protect herself? How many lies would he have to tell, to that same purpose? Who would Caius send after her? They surely wouldn't send _him_, he was sure Esme wouldn't allow it.

Alice read his thoughts easily. "Stop it," she sighed. "I'll be much better off than you."

_It was a strange day, one that seemed to shift uneasily in some obscure balance. The sun was out, but weathermen had prophesied hail. Edward leaned against the wall of a building carelessly, habitually skimming his eyes across the empty alleyway, the screeching Seattle streets, the skies. Jacob was, unsurprisingly, late. Edward didn't mind—this gave him time alone to think. _

_Demetri, after being successfully avoided by Edward for the past two months, had waylaid him on the way to his first hit this morning. _

"_Edward. __**Edward**__," he'd insisted, jogging to keep up with Edward's determined stride. "Wait a sec." _

_Resigning himself, Edward turned. With a half-hearted smile, he asked, "What can I do for you, Demetri?" _

"_It's just," Demetri shifted a little uncomfortably, as if suddenly unsure of what he was about to say. "I heard you were assigned to that __**Vindici **__girl. Bella." _

_Edward's jaw tightened imperceptibly. That night in Tacoma had stuck with him, and he had taken to tensing automatically whenever it was mentioned. For the past two months, he had been inexplicably haunted by the notion that something had gone terribly wrong. He'd run it over and over again in his mind, trying to come up with different outcomes: scenarios where no one ended up dead, where the girl somehow didn't end up hating him…_

_At any rate, he didn't want to discuss this with the mediocre assassin who had brought it all about. _

_Demetri stared at him expectantly; Edward's conscience smote him. "Yes," he answered. "She's my next target." _

_Demetri nodded, unsurprised. He took a deep breath. "Don't let this get around, but…I've been thinking about that kid. I feel like I'm—indebted to her or some shit. Like I owe her." _

_Edward looked at him steadily. _

"_You don't get it," Demetri said, defensive. "She did something decent, even though she had every right to kill me. Shit, it's like she saved my life. And then I hear that she's been assigned—and I'd never tell you not to do your job, you have to do it—but if you could just, you know, make it clean?" _

_What a life a hatchet lived, thought Edward, that the best favor he could ask for someone was an easy death. He felt a new respect for the man, pitiful though his plea was. _

"_I do get it," he assured him. "Of course I do. It'll be clean, I promise you." _

"_Thanks, man." Demetri had clapped him on the back, smiling like a huge weight had left his shoulders, and turned back toward the Shack. Edward stared after him like that weight had just fallen to rest on his own. _

_Because the truth was that Edward didn't want to kill Bella Vindici. He felt no ill will towards her—he was too unable to justify his own actions to condemn hers. Far to the contrary, she had shown grace on the occasion that was uncharacteristic of those in her position. He didn't know whether this move had been influenced by true compassion or just a flying whim; either way, it did nothing to assuage his conscience. _

_Just as Edward was considering this, and running the events over in his mind once more, he caught a flicker of movement above him._

_He tensed immediately, grasping his handgun. That was not the kind of movement that one should be seeing on rooftops. He arched his neck, searching…and froze. _

_Oh, God. Oh, God. _

_She had the kind of beauty that was dangerous. The scorching dark eyes, the porcelain skin, the full, wicked lips—her __**hair**__, twisting in mahogany waves past her waist, tumbled and twisting in the wind like a living thing—all were terrible in their perfection, fearful in their magnetism. He almost wanted to look away from her, thinking as humans do after gazing at the moon for a long period of time. __**Too beautiful. Untouchable. Not for me.**_

_Edward probably would have looked away, had he not felt the sudden, undeniable assurance that this woman was going to take up the rest of his life. _

_He had often scorned Shakespeare's take on love in Romeo and Juliet, both before and after assassins came into his life. Beforehand, he was indignant at the 'love at first sight' theory because he didn't think it was valid. The lovers' tryst in the famous play had been based entirely on physical attraction, the age-old initial desire for conquest. Even throughout the play, the teenagers didn't even attempt to learn the other's character, but instead continued to profess their undying love to eachother (still based on nothing other than that initial attraction) until their self-imposed deaths at the end of the story. This was certainly not the kind of love Edward wanted anything to do with. He wanted a love that was stronger than sex, purer than beauty. _

_The few times that he read the play afterwards, he scorned it for those same reasons, but also because he knew that there would never, could never be anyone for him. Finding one's true love didn't come on the list of perks of being a killer. _

_Yet there she was. None of the other girls he'd been with had a hope of comparing, had a hope of being remembered. It wasn't a case of 'love at first sight', he knew, but one of the utter certainty of the love that would come. This was because, more clearly than he had ever seen anyone, he __**saw **__her. He saw determination and sensitivity and intelligence and wickedness and it was perfect, she was perfect. _

_All this had gone through his mind in the space of about five seconds. It was after these five seconds that Edward realized, with a ripple of apprehension, that, destined for him or not, she could have no business on that rooftop unless—_

_**Oh, fuck**__, thought Edward, __**Please let me be wrong because she's everything and I'm almost ninety-nine-point-nine percent sure that she was made for me and I'm really starting to think that she's Bella Vindic—**_

_She had a gun in her hands, and she was aiming it at him. _

_He shot, instinctually, an easy one to dodge, buying a little more time. More time to think, to rationally go through his options. He was panicking. He looked up at her with new eyes, and saw that the fire in her gaze had distracted him from the steely coldness of her face, that the determination in her stance had distracted him from her actual intent. _

_Jesus Christ, there were no options. She had killed Maggie O'Hanley…she was his enemy…the Vindici had murdered his father. He would have to kill her, he would have to watch as her soulful eyes went blank and glassy, and wonder until it drove him mad. _

_An answering shot, like a confirmation, whistled down to meet him. He hurled himself sideways, with more energy than was usually necessary. She had excellent aim: maybe she would kill him, and he wouldn't have to deal with killing her. _

_He didn't shoot her, but watched half-curiously for her next move. She obviously saw that he could dodge her bullets from such a distance. Now, would she retreat? Would she continue long-range? Would she do something ballsy? _

_She didn't disappoint. _

_**Ballsy, **__he affirmed to himself as Bella jumped clear over the parapet, looking like a goddess descending from Olympus as her projectiles exploded toward him. Then he promptly got the hell out of the way. _

_She had grabbed hold of an orange draping from one of the ledges. It was slowing her fall, bringing her within fifteen feet of him—ten feet—adrenaline took over. Before he knew it, he had lodged a dagger into her shoulder. _

_He repeated the next few moments over in his head often afterwards, sometimes out of sheer masochism, other times just wanting a memory of some kind of interaction between them. _

_She fell gracefully and correctly, the way any trained assassin would do, but in her case it was the wrong move. She landed on her right side, the wounded one, and Edward watched in silent horror as the knife sank deeper into her shoulder. _

_He appraised the dagger, bobbing gruesomely up and down with her measured breaths. Unbidden, a whimper of anguish escaped her. She pulled a pistol out of her belt, an attempt to defend herself; her entire arm shook, the gun with it. _

_**I did that. I did that to her. **_

"_It'll be clean, I promise you," he had told Demetri. _

_**God, I'm going to hell. **_

_It did not matter that the throw had been instinctive; Bella Vindici was mutilated, literally torn apart by him. Oh no, Oh God, and she was hurting. She was in pain. He couldn't kill her. He had to kill her. He'd kill her. _

_**Yes? **_

_Bella's dark eyes rose to meet his. _

_**No. **_

_As their eyes met, the quiet between them changed. What had been murderous before was now probing, learning. _

_She was cold, yes—he could see in her face the hard steel with which she encased herself, her emotions. But beneath the steely coldness, he could feel something there, something hot and pulsing. It was the same thing he had sensed at his first sight of her, like a caged flame, and he unconsciously found himself trying to pull her out, his eyes holding her, drawing her toward him…_

_For a moment, it seemed as if she understood and acknowledged him. They had met eachother now, on some level. In that moment, when everything was primal and perfect, Edward could not help but think, __**This is the one, I feel her, she's right here, and I have found her. **__He'd gone through his life without knowing that he had been waiting for her; in the back of his mind, he was sure he should have shot her by now. He would never hesitate in any other case. The gun was cocked and ready. Such a simple movement, and it would be over, his job would be done, she would be gone forever. Gone forever. _

_Edward should have been prepared for her to shoot him. He wasn't, however, and it hurt. He growled in discomfort as the smoking shell hissed in his thigh. She had shot him. Wasn't it customary to shoot back? Hadn't he been taught that? Hadn't he been taught anything? _

_Could he touch her? Could he kill her? _

_Edward drank the sight of her in for another still moment, then turned and ran like the devil. _

"So just remember what I've told you. And give it time, remember that too. Don't push Bella too hard, she'll lash out at you. She's set up an elaborate system of denial to protect herself. Try to keep the right perspective."

"And you still won't tell me…?"

Alice smiled evasively. "Give it time." She got up, off of the couch, and turned to gaze speculatively at Don't Kill Me.

"Don't kill her," said Edward, grinning.

Alice reached down and stoically scratched the large, sleeping calico's ears. "I'm even going to miss you, you ugly poofy thing," she murmured, with a curious twist of distaste and sentimentality in her voice. Then she turned to face Edward head on, little arms swinging. She tilted her head pleadingly.

"Oh, fine." He opened his arms to her.

She took a step and then jumped into them, and he supported her little body, holding her close to his chest like a doll, like his doll. This had been a ritual since they were adolescents. Now, a good deal older and with more regrets, they held onto eachother tightly. Edward would not allow himself to think the words _last time_, and instead thought of how they had grown up together, together in their few joys and their frequent sorrows, a team.

"I love you," he said into her spiky hair.

"I love you," she said into his neck.

Edward released her, but kept his hands on her slight shoulders. He stared into her face, memorizing her as she was probably memorizing him. It suddenly struck him that, in their last moments together, he wanted her to be happy. So he said, "You can go ahead and say, it Alice. I know you've been planning on saying it—I know you've been dying to say it all night."

He was right; it worked. Alice's face lit up until it looked like it was illuminated by some divine light, until she looked like the fairy-queen he had always imagined her to be.

"Edward, I met a boy."


	9. Chapter 8

**Author's Note: This chapter was inspired by Hard to Handle by the Black Crowes. Please enjoy and review. **

Chapter Eight

Bella knew that he had to die eventually.

She considered this, swinging her legs like a toddler from the high bench she was perched on, as the morning sun touched the faces of the pedestrians milling around her. A languid May breeze, heavy with the signature Seattle twist of salt and sea, ruffled through the copper-bronze hair of one man in particular. Bella's eyes, with apparent absentmindedness, followed him.

Closely.

Even if she was not the one to kill him, Edward Masen was certainly going to die, and soon. The entire world called out for his death. Felix demanded it, settled snugly in his unmarked grave; Aro and the other Vindici expected it, more out of a need for equilibrium than a desire for vengeance; the rest of the world would gladly sign his death warrant, if for no other reason than that he was young, and beautiful, and unreachable.

Bella knew that Edward had to die eventually, and she was sure that she would be the one to enforce the fact. Her family expected it of her, and, even more importantly, she expected it of herself. As she drifted into her mandatory eight hours of sleep every night, the words nagged at her brittle consciousness: _Edward's still alive, Edward's still alive. _They filled her with an odd, misplaced mixture of elation and fury.

Contemplating Edward Masen's demise often led Bella to the examination of her own. In reality, their fates mirrored eachother almost exactly. There were two options allotted to both of them: either to be killed by one another, or to be killed by someone else. Bella knew exactly what would happen to her after Edward was dead. She would continue with her work as always, and she would burn as brightly as a meteor plummeting through the sky, and eventually, probably before she was twenty-five, someone would shootpoisonstab her and she would be over.

The withered hounds in the business, ones over forty like Aro or Carlisle, were not mocked for their senility but rather applied to for the secret of their success. Because surviving for so long as an assassin was, from any angle, a long-shot. This was a truth that Bella had long acknowledged, one that was acknowledged by assassins everywhere. It counted for almost everyone that she had ever cared about. It counted for Benjamin and Garrett and Embry—for Joe, who would surely drink himself to death if he managed to avoid his bullets—for Emmett and Rosalie, bound to follow eachother quickly—for Jasper—

Especially for Jasper, now.

Bella had known, from the moment Jasper had explained his plans to her, that she would be the hatchet Aro sent after him. She was the obvious choice, after all. She had taught him, she had known him, his weaknesses and his past. No one had been more privy to his thoughts, to his habits…no one had loved him more.

This was the second reason for Aro's assignment, and she'd known it almost as quickly as the first. The twisted bastard was _testing _her.

He had done this before, too many times to count. All of Aro's assassins at one time experienced a deliberately-placed roadblock, a confounding or painful assignment, a trial of loyalty. Bella wasn't entirely new to these tests, but her competence had been such that Aro usually left her alone.

But since she had begun tracking Edward Masen, the Vindici's attitude as a whole towards her had changed. People seemed to be more nervous around her, unsettled. Not a remarkable occurrence for Bella—she had quite a reputation—but this was different from the half-fearful respect she had been shown before. Now, her peers looked at her as though she was an elegant, dangerous stranger. As if she had been transformed somehow, unbeknownst to herself.

"_You're prettier than before—and sadder," Emmett had told her. _

Emmett, along with half a dozen others, was an exception to the change of behavior towards her. If her friends noticed a difference, they rarely remarked on it. Carlisle kept his peace, but Bella often found his ice-blue eyes steady on her, as if she was a math problem he had not yet tried to solve.

Most of the time, she didn't understand what the fuss was about. She continued as always, working harder than she was able, pushing herself towards an end she still feared. This had not changed. But sometimes, in quiet half-suppressed moments when she was alone, Bella felt a pull from another direction. She would think of tousled hair and moss-green eyes, and feel such a fever stirring inside herself that it frightened her.

These moments were short-lived. She nearly always waved them away as Jasper-induced loneliness.

Jasper's absence had hurt her more and less than she thought it would. It was less because she could still move along and laugh with her family and be happy. It was more because she could be surrounded people who cared for her and still ache and be lonely…because she would sometimes go to meet him at the Attic's staircase, or look up to tell him something, and then pause in bewildered bitterness.

She had not been in love Jasper—no—but she had loved him, and now it hurt.

Bella was sprawled out comfortably on the bench as she watched Edward Masen seat himself at the outdoor café across from her. She was sure he had seen her, of course he had, but he made no move to leave. She thought of the last time she'd seen him, when they hadn't even shot at eachother once.

_Bella stood with her hands resting lightly on the railing of the private balcony she had reserved. She looked out over the well-buffed, professional looking buildings of Olympia. Carlisle had arranged a dinner meeting with her, Rosalie, and a potential sponsor named Amun who presumably favored the company of women. Amun and Rosalie weren't late, but Bella was early. _

_Just as she was turning to go inside, Bella felt a whisper of unease travel down her back. The small gun in her purse was out in a moment. Carefully, she assessed the surrounding buildings. _

_It didn't take her too long to spot him…the hair gave him away. He stood from behind the open window of an ordinary looking building diagonal to hers. The setting sun glinted off of the other windows surrounding him. Slowly, lazily, he was leveling his long-range at her. _

_He leaned down to check the scope, and Bella tried to picture what he must be seeing: herself in a dusky green evening gown, dark hair pulled back and spilling over one shoulder, eyes hard, her gun raised and pointing directly at him. _

_His head jerked up in surprise. They stared at eachother for a solid minute, and Bella found herself relaxing despite herself as her eyes traced his already well-known features. Even fifty yards away, the sight of him made her muscles loose and excited. She could feel him taking in her appearance, and made sure to keep her gun steady. _

_Finally, after many painful heartbeats, she smiled at him. _

_After a moment, he smiled back. _

_The smile they shared wasn't one of mockery, or even of promise. It was a brief, rueful out flash of camaraderie, a smile that said, __**All in good fun, right? Maybe I'll kill you next time. **_

_With an amused half-smile still curling his lips, Edward backed away from the window and shut it, disappearing behind the tinted glass. _

_Bella sensed Rosalie behind her, and turned. She was stunning, dressed in scarlet with her golden tresses piled atop her head, light to Bella's dark. Her violet eyes looked not at Bella but past her, at the window that Edward had closed moments ago. _

"_So that's Edward Masen," she said. _

"_Not for long," Bella replied. _

_Rosalie laughed. _

Bella stared at Edward in mild consternation as he placed his order. Her eyes traced him with a guilty sort of satisfaction. He was dressed simply, in the muted garb of an assassin: easy-to-move-in black jeans and dark blue sweater, fitting snug on the lovely deadly chest and arm muscles.

His head was tilted nonchalantly upwards as he spoke, exposing his neck indifferently. The waiter left, and still he did not look at her, though he had placed himself in the perfect position to do so. He flipped through his newspaper, ignoring her, casual as a cat on the hunt.

Remembering herself, she glanced down at the crossword puzzle she had brought and fully intended to solve. As she glanced down at the untouched page, her irritation rose: along with her head, Masen was fucking with her very rare free time.

She glanced halfheartedly at the first clue, her mind racing all the while. _What was Edward doing here? He had obviously followed her. If he'd wanted to go on a morning stroll he could have done it at home in Bellevue. But why, then, if he wanted another shot at her, had he arranged the tête-à-tête in public?_ The most important rule of an assassin, even higher up than 'Protect your family', was 'Don't get caught'_. _It was a necessity for an assassin to be able to dodge the law, to remain inconspicuous—a necessity that would be quickly blown to shit when she and Edward decided to have a showdown in the middle of Pike Place.

It almost seemed as if he had chosen a public spot deliberately. A safe zone. Which, seeing as they had eachother locked in an ongoing death-spiral, made no sense whatsoever.

She looked up, involuntarily, the way children do when their names are called. His eyes were on her, finally, the vibrant earthy eyes that occasionally haunted her, and they seemed wickedly amused. His expression was polite and detached, very suitable for the passerby that he was trying to appear as, but his eyes said _**Come here. **_

She looked at him.

He tapped the place next to him, smiling, the devil, irresistible.

Shocked and half-disbelieving, she glared exclamation points at him; he elegantly raised an eyebrow at her, a dare, a question mark.

According to every single one of the regulations she'd created around herself over three years ago, she should walk away without looking back. That was the smart decision, the safe one. The one she was going to make. Absolutely.

When he looked down and resumed reading his paper, she knew it was all useless.

Bella checked her watch, sighed, and crossed the street to the café like she'd meant to do it all along. As she approached him, she saw, with a mixture of wariness and amusement, that there were two drinks on the table.

She sat gracefully, and delivered her line. "So, you're turning yourself in after all. A little anticlimactic, I'll admit, after all these weeks, but I'm not complaining." As she said it, she adjusted the sheath of the dagger tucked into her left sleeve. Just in case. She noticed that both of his hands were placed conspicuously on top of the table.

Edward smiled at her, his green eyes startling. "I didn't plan on surrendering," he said simply. "I'll be sure to give you notice if that happens, though."

It was the first time she had ever heard his voice. Bella hadn't expected it to be so deep, so warm. He had a soothing voice…a lying voice. One that would comfort you even as he tightened the noose around your neck, she thought.

She stared at him, waiting, expectant.

He took his cue. "So," he began, "I'm guessing you didn't plan on this particular kind of lunch date when you woke up this morning. You're probably wondering what the hell I'm doing."

"If you mean that I'm probably considering whether or not you're clinically insane, then yeah, you've got me pegged."

"I appreciate the concern you have for my welfare," he approved, laughter in his eyes. She smiled along with him this time, acknowledging the irony, and the delicious surreal fact that they were sitting across from eachother and talking politely.

The air around them was thick and loud. The purposeful bustle of buyers and sellers, each of them carrying a sausage or flowers or jewelry or produce or caramel corn or wind chimes, girdled their table. Low music issued from a desperate sax somewhere behind them. Bitter cries blended with giddy laughter and the tossing of fish.

Little children tread the cobblestone path carefully, holding Mommy or Daddy's hand in a death grip, eyes wide with a mixture of panic and exhilaration.

One of them caught Bella's eye in particular. She was tiny and gorgeous, a dainty little milkmaid with blond hair, overalls, and out-of-season Wellington boots. Dainty, chubby fingers tried and failed to wrap around her father's wrist as he approached a wizened flower lady. Her young dark eyes appraised Bella carefully, taking in the muted clothing, perfect features and hard expression. The perfect features seemed to decide her: she broke out in a wide, conspirational smile.

Bella, despite herself, allowed her mouth to curve a little at the edges before looking away quickly.

Her eyes returned to Edward, who was now gazing at her with an inscrutable expression. Unnerved, she said, "I'm still waiting for an explanation. Preferably before I kill the shit out of you."

Edward pursed his lips speculatively, idly tracing the rim of his lemonade glass. He seemed to think seriously about his next choice of words. "I've come to the conclusion," he said slowly, "that you and I are almost evenly matched in skill. Which means that we could quite possibly both end up dead."

He paused, assessing her expression. "You don't have to look at me like that, Bella. Any other assassin would take it as a compliment."

Bella stared at him, fighting the tingle that had run down her back at the way he had said her name, musically, confidently, like it was his own. His words caught up to her, though, and she agreed coldly, "Any other assassin would."

"And I was thinking," he continued, "that, no matter what the outcome, this job is going to be a long haul."

"Sweet of you to think so," she replied, surprised into laughter. The statement was so blandly, consciously ridiculous. She still had no idea what possible justification he could have for arranging this meeting, though, or what he planned on getting out of it. Her life? A chat?

Edward's voice, tinged with annoyance, interrupted her thoughts. "For someone so eager to know why I'm here, you're awfully good at interrupting."

"For someone who set up this lunch date, you're awfully good at beating around the bush," she retorted.

It was his turn to chuckle. She found herself listening closely to the sound; it had a deep timbre, but it wasn't gravelly like Emmett's or menacing like Aro's. His laugh dissolved eventually into a professional expression, and he raised his eyebrows slightly, asking permission to continue.

"Go ahead," she sighed.

"Alright. So I also thought," said Edward, "since at least one of us is going to die, and since that process will take up a substantial period of time for both of us, we might as well make it an experience to remember. We might as well drink lemonade and get to know eachother."

He looked down at her drink, and pushed back a frown when he saw that it was untouched. "Hmm." He leaned forward across the table, too close for comfort—her fingers curled tighter around her weapon as her heart stuttered strangely—and took a drink from the straw.

Edward leaned back, looking at her with an openness she wouldn't let herself trust. She saw the reassurance he had infused in the gesture, but hard training and harder experience refused to accept it. The look she gave him was not unfriendly, but she refused to touch the drink.

"So, that's what you want out of this," she said dubiously, half to herself. "A friend. It's not a bad idea, really. You've just missed this one little problem…"

"I never said I wanted to be your friend," he interjected. "Friends protect eachother. Maybe 'acquaintances' would be a better word—no strings, just talking. You intrigue me, Bella, I'll admit it. I have questions."

If his previous words hadn't alarmed her, that last sentence certainly did. CarlisleEmmettRosalieJasper flashed through her mind. She recoiled sharply, into her seat; Edward leaned forward, eager, his emerald eyes flashing with some unnamable emotion.

"If it's information that you want, you've asked the wrong girl. You won't get it from me." She could feel her body straightening, blazing at him. Protective, determined, furious.

Something in him seemed to spark in response. He leaned even closer, his gaze tracing her, _seeing _her. "No, it's not information that I want," Edward murmured.

His proximity was changing her. Through her panic and the knowledge that she was five seconds away from killing him, she felt something shift and lock inside her. Images of her own fingers running through his hair, his lips brushing her eyelids, rose unbidden before her. For the first time in her life, she thought to herself that she was too young, quite too young, to be experiencing an ache like this.

She knew that she had no choice. She knew that she had no choice.

Painfully, icily, she spoke. "If you don't move away from me right now, I'm going to kill you. I swear to god, I'll shoot you in front of everyone." Her voice, thankfully, was steady.

Edward nodded, his face thoughtful, and pulled away slowly. She noticed that he actually pulled his chair back a little as he sat down. Giving her space. He did it with an almost contrite air, as if he had broken one of his own rules.

She watched him warily as he took another drink of lemonade. Her own sat on the table, still untouched by her; the ice was beginning to melt.

"I don't want to know about anyone that's close to you," he said. "You're the target, remember? I'm not asking any dangerous questions. I guess I just want your side of the story. You've got to admit it's going to be a good one—two young assassins, both assigned to eachother, and both with hidden incentive."

Incentive, he said. Hers was obvious: Felix. His—? She raised an eyebrow with interest.

He didn't resume speaking, silently dismissing her unasked question. She frowned, irritated at him, irritated at herself. "Even if I did understand why you'd ever want to talk to a target, which I don't," she began, "I still don't see how you can justify doing so. Your rules can't be so unlike mine."

"Which ones?" he asked, seeming pleased that she was no longer threatening him with immediate death.

"Well, hatchets aren't exactly pleasure seekers, for one thing."

This was true. Aro and Carlisle kept their assassins under a strict regimen. Any activity that was destructive to the body, thus impairing killing potential, was prohibited. Especially those activities that could become addictive. Smoking, the use of drugs, alcohol, and even coffee were heavily punished. Joe, the famous drunkard of the Vindici bunch, was alive only because Aro didn't care about him enough to have him killed. Bella herself, being much less stupid and much more valuable, had never touched a drop.

These restrictions meant that an assassin's recreational activities were limited. Sex was allowed, even encouraged, since it did nothing but improve fitness and stamina. Rosalie was taken, however, and Bella was rare, so the devastating male majority had nothing but to seek out the gentle, inferior touch of the female healers.

Bella looked at Edward and thought that he, being insanely attractive and one of the few men available in _Scopo Finale_, probably didn't have any problems getting women. The idea was a distasteful one.

"No, we're not," he agreed. "But honestly, are we pleasure-seeking right now? Look at it as a momentary truce. You ask your questions, I ask mine, and we both live another day."

_Live another day. _

She looked around them. Lunchtime had caused the walking crowd to thin enough that the sunlight glimmered off of the pavestones. Beside their table, the wind swept across the floor like a dancer. What would the terms of this meeting be like if neither of them had ever met an assassin—if they were here on an awkward first date, perhaps, or as comfortable family friends? Bella thought that, in this alternate universe, she would feel like it was a beautiful day to be alive in.

She _had _met Emmett, though, and there was no use in imagining otherwise. The innocent, quiet, simple-pleasures Bella had long since been buried and replaced by the woman she was now: hard, determined, and bloody. Her pleasures were much stronger and more primal now. She was too well trained to be brave or cowardly. This meant that living another day, while immeasurably precious to a regular person, was a rather low glory for her.

"Your lemonade is getting watery," Edward observed.

"It is," she agreed, still thinking.

Was there any way she could turn this to her advantage? She refused to admit that some part of her wanted to _know _this man; she tried to look at it as a business transaction. The _Vindici_ had the upper hand in the feud with _Scopo Finale_, ever since they'd killed Maggie O' Hanley. Could she further this now? If there was any way they could become close enough for him to trust her…Esme's son…

His jewel-like eyes pulled hers up to meet his, as they had before. They shattered her concentration entirely, making her doubt any reason she could ever have to hurt him.

"So, what say you?" He tilted his head, charming, devastating. Bella wondered idly if he had rehearsed all of his lines and gestures beforehand, and chosen them specifically to confuse her. Her own face throughout the past minutes had been carefully blank: hiding.

"Well," she began, slowly tracing the rim of her own lemonade, a silent mockery of his previous actions. She felt a little gush of triumph when his eyes flickered downward to watch, despite himself. "It's utterly ridiculous, but I don't see any harm in it. As long as this is a one time thing, and we both go back to killing eachother tomorrow."

"Yes, you're perfectly free to kill me tomorrow."

"I could make it good for you," she offered.

He stretched his shoulders back and sighed, the lazy grin on his face making him look much younger. "I'm sure you could. Am I allowed to ask my questions now?"

"Yes." Her posture, which had been relaxing moments ago, straightened and stiffened.

"Okay." He steepled his long fingers together, observing them for a moment before speaking. "Why didn't you just let them shoot Demetri?"

The look she leveled at him was thick with meaning. _Felix is dead. Why didn't you return the favor? _

He winced, but waited.

She decided that it wouldn't hurt to be honest this time. "I didn't think an assassin should die on his knees."

Edward stared at her.

"My mistake, obviously," she said quickly, almost defensive.

He looked over her head, at the shuffling of people behind her. "You know what, Bella? I think that, in a backwards way, you might have a moral compass."

She laughed. "Don't be insulting."

"I'm not. I don't know many other hatchets that would have done what you did. You were going to have him killed anyway, I'll give you that, but you wanted to do it…honorably."

She glared at him, definitely defensive now. "If I'd known that I would be subjected to an inquisition for doing it, I'd have just lodged a bullet in his head."

"He's very grateful you didn't, by the way."

"Oh, I'm sure." She thought of Felix, and the taste in her mouth was bitter.

Edward looked at her thoughtfully. "You don't like the idea of being a good person, do you?"

"It's an occupational hazard. What, do _you _have a moral compass?"

He shrugged. "I sometimes like to think so." His gaze sharpened on her expression. "What is it now?"

She shifted a strand of hair that had been blowing in her face, tucked it behind her ear. "I find it a little funny that the man who claims to have morals is the one who got his kill that night." She didn't know what she looked like at that moment, she had no control of her expression.

His jaw clenched, as if he was in pain, as he looked at her. "I'm sorry. Really. And your shoulder…"

Bella blinked, surprised. "Don't be. You're doing your job." After a moment, she realized that he had just apologized for killing Felix, that he _regretted _killing him, and she felt that she would never be closer to hating Edward Masen than she was now.

"Tell me what you're thinking," he ordered, cutting off her thoughts.

Her lips curled humorlessly, and she once again told the truth. "I was thinking that I could hate you."

Edward's hair was a little tousled by the wind, like hers. His muscled arms were at his sides, his green eyes looked down at her steadily. "That's a stroke of good luck for you, given the circumstances."

_He's beautiful_, she thought suddenly, totally out of place. He had killed Felix and she was going to kill him back, but at that moment the sight of him was so magnetic that her breath halted. From across the little table, she could easily smell the attractive masculine scent of him, a mixture of grass and spice and sunshine.

"Assassins shouldn't mix emotions with work," she finally ground out. "And how do you expect me to feel? That's two in the past three months…" she trailed off, realizing that in her second of weakness she had made a mistake. Edward had no idea that Jasper had left. No one should have an idea that Jasper had left. But there was no way she could backtrack, or recant what she had just said. It lay there heavy in the air between them, and suddenly Edward had information that he could use. She stared at him for a moment in honest chagrin, discarding the usual defiance like a worn-out toy.

When he spoke, Edward's voice was different, detached. "Did you love him?" He obviously wasn't talking about Felix.

She looked down at the table, not wanting to be distracted by the sight of him as she spoke carefully. "In a way, I did."

He was silent for so long that she finally looked up. The look he gave her was almost sympathetic. "I lost someone like that, too, not long ago."

Her lips parted in shock. He had just openly volunteered serious information, the kind he knew that she could use against him. It evened the playing field, making them equals in vulnerability—but no assassin she'd ever met had cared about fairness before.

"Loneliness is a big part of this business," he continued. "Losing someone never helps."

"No, I suppose not," she murmured, still reeling in surprise and their proximity. "So…you have any other questions? Don't expect me to ask any. You're leading this marching band."

He laughed, then thought. "Umm, what was the happiest year of your life?"

Again, he surprised her. Another question that was technically harmless, but one that sliced her. A flood of memories assaulted her, ones that she had repressed for years.

_Renée tinkering at the piano in the living room, laughing at her own mistakes—neon twisty-tie shoelaces—the cool shelter of dark trees—Charlie's hesitant, earnest smile—_

_No—Stop—_

She closed her eyes, shoving the memories away, and opened them to meet Edward's curious expression. "I don't know whether I'm old enough to tell you," she hedged. "I'm still pretty young." At least, by regular standards; in assassin's world, twenty was almost over-the-hill.

He frowned incredulously at her, "It's not like your happiest year will be in the _future_."

She frowned back, confused. "Why not?"

His lip curled in disbelief and the beginnings of distaste. "Don't tell me you enjoy your job."

"Of course I do!" She snapped. "Maybe they don't have any sense of purpose on your side of the line, but that's not true for mine. You don't care about the innocent lives you save?" She assessed him, remembering his apology earlier. "Or maybe all the killing is too heavy on your conscience. Well, that's life, Edward. You—"

"This is _not _life," he snapped back at her, cutting her off. His jade eyes glittered, angry and glorious. "You think this is life? They took away our lives."

Her own face heated; for the first time in years, she could feel a blush rising in her pale cheeks. "If you want to throw a pity-party, go ahead, but don't you invite me."

Her words didn't even seem to register with him; his gaze was intently focused on her face. "You're blushing," he mused, his ire seeming to fade beneath fascination.

"I'm _aware_," she replied, trying and failing to regain her cold, professional tone.

Edward smiled at her like her flustered state gave him joy, like he wanted to take her face in his hands. She jerked away from his stare sharply, looking instead at the towering buildings that congregated a few blocks away. Irritation and confusion warred in her mind as she surveyed the Needle. What was wrong with her?

She noticed that her awareness of him had heightened, so that even while looking away, his presence was like a physical touch on her skin. A pulling, insistent reminder that he was here, two feet away from her, and perfect.

"Your happiest year?" Edward reminded her.

"Ah…nine," she replied, accepting the distraction. "You?"

His smile faded. "Fourteen, for me."

She nodded, unsurprised. As she usually did with her bigger targets, she had memorized his history. It was common knowledge that Edward had joined _Scopo Finale _just before he turned sixteen. Two years younger than she had been.

"Favorite color?" he rejoined, a little playfully.

She snorted. "Next question."

"Author?"

Easy. "Bronte."

He raised an eyebrow, surprised. "Which one?"

"It's pretty close, but Emily." She laughed at the ridiculousness of his question, and the even more ridiculous fact that she had answered it. Her gun was still in her lap, but her fingers curled loosely around it. "What about you? Miguel Cervantes? Nora Roberts?"

He grinned, and leaned forward conspirationally. "Lately, it's been Shakespeare," he whispered. "Don't broadcast that, though." His eyes gleamed at some remembered joke.

She scoffed at his choice. "Assassins, forsooth."

Edward chuckled. Bella looked around, and realized that they were attracting a bit of attention from the other café patrons. The people were drawn by their beauty—they probably didn't see couples like them every day—and by the up-and-down intensity of their conversation. She wondered if they could sense the electricity that hummed between Edward and her across the table.

Edward noticed, as well, and lowered his voice. "If you could back and change everything," he asked quietly, his meaning clear, "would you do it?"

More images flashed through her mind: Carlisle kneeling in prayer, Garrett stroking her hair, Emmett teaching her how to shoot, Aro's quiet cunning smile, Rosalie lying next to her in bed, Jasper's hand curling around hers.

"No," she answered, "I wouldn't." She didn't speak out loud, but her eyebrows posed the question: _Would you_?

Once again, she felt Edward's eyes tracing her, uncovering her. She felt the magnetic pull stronger than ever, and carefully restrained herself from leaning forward. The whole length of her body tingled under his gaze. Her dark eyes were bright, the skin of her cheeks fighting a blush.

"No," he said simply.

_Edward Masen has to die eventually_, she reminded herself.

Easily, naturally, she reached for the lemonade—sniffed the liquid carefully—and took a sip.


	10. Chapter 9

**Author's Note: I lost a sweet, furry, and inexpressibly dear member of my family recently. That is why this update took so long. Chapter nine was inspired by ****Round and Round**** by Ratt. **

Chapter Nine

_**She could feel him behind her—his presence, as always, was like a physical touch. Was like a sweet, rippling pressure against her skin. Her nose was filled with the familiar heady scent of him, the grassandspiceandsunshine that had begun to haunt her. He was deliberately quiet, allowing his nearness to assault her senses, building her anticipation. **_

"_**We can't keep doing this," she said. Her words were faint, dreamy, an echo of the reality that had been pushed aside.**_

_**His fingers ghosted up her arms, barely skimming the skin, leaving goose bumps in their wake. He was tantalizing her deliberately, she knew, reminding her of exactly what she was missing. She felt him lean in even closer, his lips brushing against her hair. **_

"_**Come away with me," Edward murmured.**_

Bella snapped to attention as her name was called a second time. She looked up inquiringly at Benjamin, her eyes carefully blank.

"Food," he explained simply. His mouth curved in a hesitant smile.

She flashed him a gracious smile in return. "Thanks, Ben." She leapt up from her place on the couch, leading the way to the Feeding Hall. Her posture was painfully casual, attempting to make him forget the daydream he'd caught her in. It had been so long since she'd had to put up a front around anyone inside of her family, but now she found herself struggling to blend in with the others. _I'm normal. Damn you, I'm normal._

They entered the feeding hall, meeting headlong the onslaught of noise. At home base, mealtimes were a sort of enforced free-for-all. The long tables reminded Bella of a Harry Potter movie she'd seen once, except with less extravagant dishes. Right now, the tables were piled with trays of ham and turkey sandwiches.

Aro's assassins were scrupulously and punctiliously well-fed. They were ordered to eat as much as they possibly could, and then eat a little bit more. The amount of calories they each burned per day, due to the constant combination of killing and training, made gorging an absolute necessity. There was no need or reason to be self-conscious or to worry about one's fitness—on the contrary, the people that experienced the sting of reprimand were the ones that _didn't_ eat past the point of fullness.

Several voices called out with invitations from various tables, but Bella automatically followed the one that was lighter, feminine.

"Come eat, Bella," Rosalie ordered. Her eyes scanned Bella's form, and a tiny frown tilted her lips. "You look like you've lost a little weight."

"Well, I'm finding some," said Emmett from his place beside her. He winked at Bella, simultaneously roguish and comforting. "Pass me another sandwich, Rose."

Bella laughed easily, and sat. She began to mechanically eat a sandwich, all the while scanning the room for threats or sources of amusement. Other assassins were doing the former all around her, following the nervous instinct triggered by crowds.

"I heard that you nabbed Horace yesterday, Bella," Embry called from a few seats down the table. "Well done."

She nodded, accepting the praise. Carlisle had been surprisingly helpful with her new multiple-targets plan, and had taken to giving her increasingly larger targets simultaneously. Jeffery Horace, a well-protected meth dealer who had overstepped his territory, had been one of these.

Bella had killed him in an elevator—an impressive feat, considering the fact that she'd had to get rid of the body before she reached the top level. Horace, however, had been too surprised to give Bella much of a fight. She had sighed in disappointment before cracking his spine.

Emmett pursed his lips in disagreement. "Too easy," he said, bluntly, unflatteringly, with all of the honesty earned by a long friendship.

Her lips quirked up in rueful acknowledgment. Over the years, she had become less and less responsive to praise. It was only candid criticism which caught her attention and relaxed her posture.

The truth was that it _had _been too easy. Bella had begun to hold all of her kills up to a higher, bronze-haired standard. Anything less couldn't truly be called a challenge.

_Bella and Edward were true to their word. The day after their meeting in Pike Place, they began hunting again. _

_After a quick hint from one of the designated target-watchers in Bellevue, she found him on a rooftop in a backstreet Bellevue alleyway. He seemed to have an affinity for places like this; just as he had the first day she'd seen him, he leaned against one of the cement walls. Bella watched him with her head tilted to the side and one hand on her hip. _

_Edward saw her immediately, and the slow, sweet smile that lit his face made Bella's breath catch in her throat. "Truce over?" he asked, carefully casual, hand on his belt. _

_In answer, she shot him. _

_He dodged at the last possible second, much to the good fortune of his ribcage. His own gun was out in half a second. They circled eachother slowly, guns raised, and Bella was trying not to remember sitting and smiling with him just yesterday. After having traded jokes with him, it was hard to stifle the obvious joke biting at her lips. _

_After a whole minute of circling, she couldn't hold the humor in anymore. She giggled. _

_Edward froze at the sound, and looked at her with a confused, slightly insulted expression. _

"_I feel like I'm in the middle of an Old Western showdown," she admitted. _

_He chuckled lightly, straightened. After a moment, he pursed his lips speculatively. "Hand-to-hand better for you?" _

_Bella saw the challenge in his eyes, and also a curiosity that she shared. The only true way to gauge an assassin's skill was to take away his weapon. Smirking a little, she tossed her weapon aside. _

_He raised an eyebrow at her. "You know that I'm the one with the gun, now, right?" _

_She held his gaze, calling his bluff. "You're also the one with the moral compass."_

_Edward grinned and toyed with the gun for a moment longer before throwing it to the side with hers. He strode forward purposefully and began to circle more closely, giving her a narrower berth. She shifted along with him, and just when she would take her first sideways step—she swung her leg upward and kicked him in the chest. _

_He grimaced, but caught her leg and held it. His hand slid up her calf like a salsa dancer's, then gripped and pulled harshly upward, causing her torso to slump backwards toward the cement. _

_Bella pushed her hands hard against the ground, giving herself momentum. When her body was completely upright, she grasped one of his shoulders for support and threw her other fist at his neck. _

_Once again, Edward took the hit. His arms loosened their hold around her. She took advantage of this, using the arm on his shoulder to propel her upward. Her elbow came down, poised to sink in between his shoulder blades, but he twisted away. _

_Totally disengaged from eachother and both panting slightly, they circled once again. Edward dove forward with a kick to the shin. She fought back a wince, then ducked as he threw a punch. He was a little stronger than she was, but she was wilier. _

_Bella leapt forward, feinted, and twisted a leg to pull his out from under him. He came down with a growl, and she reached around the back of his neck for the deadly pressure-spot at the base of his skull. _

_Edward wrenched himself out of her grasp, his green eyes bright with furious heat, and for a moment she wasn't sure whether he wanted to kiss her or kill her. He moved toward her; she danced back, then shot an arm out for a punch in the stomach. This time, he was ready for her. His hands planted themselves on her shoulders, shoving her roughly against the cement wall. _

_Bella gripped his biceps, planting her feet against the wall and propelling herself forward. He was ready, once again, and braced himself against her weight. She tried to duck away, but his arms tightened around her shoulders. _

_She continued to push against him, pausing every now and then to rain blows down on his abdomen. He pushed her further into the wall each time; each time he did this, she fought him back harder, and they continued to struggle._

"_Give it __**up**__," snarled Edward. Bella hissed, arching and thrashing under his hands, because she knew that she wasn't giving up __**anything**__ to him, not ever— _

_  
Then, suddenly, Edward became very calm. She froze, and realized why. He had found purchase on the back of her neck, on that fool-proof spot that killed a person instantly when pushed hard enough, according to experience and Emmett._

_He had her. Bella looked up into his face, keeping her expression blank. He smiled down at her, intimate and devastating. _

_Edward stroked the spot gently, circled it slowly with the lightest of pressure. The sensuous, teasing motion (which tingled) reminded Bella of her own words the previous day at Pike Place: __**I could make it good for you.**_

"_Go ahead," Bella said. "Do your job. I forgive you, and all that." _

_She still wasn't giving anything up, she told herself. She wouldn't beg; she wouldn't close her eyes. They were locked on his, sinking into the pools of green…and it was funny, because she was going to die, but her thoughts did not once jump to Charlie or __Renée or the others that she loved. Her mind was centered on the handsome, magnetic face before her…the handsome, magnetic face—_

_**Eternity in hell, here I come,**__ Bella thought mildly. _

_Edward sighed, and released the back of her neck slowly. His eyes didn't move from hers, and they were hard with something that looked almost like disappointment. When he spoke, his voice was low and emphatic. _

"_You're a fool, Bella." _

_Her gaze widened in furious disbelief. Before she could even register a reaction, she had punched him in the jaw so hard that he staggered several paces backward. _

"_No! You don't back away from a kill, you coward! You think because I have a pretty face, you can just call it quits? You're fucking __**assigned**__ to me!" _

_He was beginning to straighten; she kicked hard at his shin and he dodged to the left. She followed, anticipating this, and threw her whole weight forward. Edward wasn't prepared to brace himself against her, so they both tumbled backward. Bella was dimly aware of the sound of his back cracking against the cement. Edward's foot flew up, digging excruciatingly into her lower stomach, and she stifled a whimper even as her hands braced themselves against his arms. _

_She pinned him smoothly, years of training guiding her muscles. An electric pulse seemed to flow over the skin that touched his—she was fully prepared to ignore it, and slipped her hand around the back of his neck to the exact same spot, mocking him—but as she looked down at him and her hair fell around his face, she realized that he was smiling. _

_For the first time, Bella fully registered that she was touching him. __**Touching**__ him. As she paused to consider this, as she allowed the fact to settle in her senses, a dizzying barrage of emotion swept over her. It wasn't something she could completely define to herself at the time, but she could feel a strange swell of panic and relief, the automatic __**Oh, no**__ fighting the resounding __**Oh, yes**__. _

_She'd never been high, but she was sure that it would feel something like this. Her proximity to Edward was like a spike to her system. _

_He seemed to be feeling something along the same lines: though the smile that she had recognized before was still lighting his eyes, she could feel his muscles clenching under her as if he was in pain. Restraining. _

_**Restraining**__, she repeated to herself, gazing down at the arms she had pushed above his head. Her hands had frozen on him, no longer pushing him down but resting on his skin. The now-familiar scent of him, the prodigious blend of grass and spice and sunshine, was sparking something inside her that was almost feverish._

"_Bella," Edward said slowly, almost crooning, exaggerating the shape of her name on his lips. _

_A shiver ran up her spine. "Stop it," she snapped, angry and flustered. Color was rising in her cheeks. _

_He raised an eyebrow at her, his meaning clear. __**Stop what?**__ And, to be honest, he wasn't really doing anything. He couldn't control the fact that the touch of his skin was making her breathing uneven. But as he continued to gauge her expression, his emerald eyes darkened. _

"_Bella," he repeated, his voice huskier and more insistent. _

_The hand at the back of his neck curled up, caressing the bronze hair absentmindedly as she thought. She was in a position of power; she could kill him right now, and her work would be done. But Bella realized that the will she had to kill him was dwindling quickly. The idea of Edward's smoldering malachite eyes going blank and dull was repulsive to her. Fuck, she shouldn't have ever sat down with him at Pike Place. This was terrible. This was dreadful. _

_**This is heaven**__, Bella thought like a lovesick girl, staring down at Edward. Her hands, of their own accord, lowered to rest on his shoulders. Her muscles relaxed, allowing him to support her weight. Edward exhaled slowly, and his freed hands went to her waist, steadying her. _

_**Aro's smiling, menacing face—**_

_The image bought the return of her senses. She ripped herself out of his arms, pulling out of the straddle and leaping to her feet. _

"_No," she said simply. _

_Edward jumped to his feet as well, frustration clear on the planes of his face. "I thought backing away from a kill was cowardly?" _

_Her breathing was ragged. She could feel several shades of disappointment showing on her own face. The strongest disappointment was irritating and very unprofessional. _

"_You know exactly why I—you—you—" Bella tried to think of an appropriate word. Finding none, she resorted to a mighty glare. _

_He glared back at her. "You're going to figure it out eventually," he told her heatedly. "But both of our clocks are ticking. By the time you're ready to face the facts, I might not be here." _

_She knew exactly what he was saying—that they only had a few years left to live. But her frustration left no room for compassion._

"_The __**facts**__," she spat at him. "The __**facts**__ are that you and I are going to kill eachother. You're supposed to be the death of me, remember? It's your duty to be the death of me. Hell, what kind of assassin are you?" _

"_**Your**__ kind," he retorted. _

_The thrill ran along her spine again, but she was in control now. "I don't understand you," she said flatly. _

_Edward ran a hand through his already-tousled bronze hair, and his voice was tired. "I'm not really that hard to understand, Bella." _

_They stared at eachother. Slowly, Bella felt her breathing begin to even. She kept her fists clenched; the urge to step forward and touch him again, to bury her face in his neck and feel the muscles of his back, was nearly overwhelming. _

"_Edward," she said, without thinking. _

"_Yes," he promised her. _

_This time, she was the one to run away. _

Bella continued to eat her lunch, the usual tight knot of worry and want in her chest given a temporary reprieve by the fullness in her stomach and the comfortable babble of loved ones. She looked around at the other tables, tables full of people who had adopted a new wariness around her, and noted that there was not one person in the building that she could explain everything to.

Bella would have been able to tell Jasper if he hadn't left, and he would certainly understand her feelings now if she could reach him. But she couldn't. It probably wouldn't do her much good if she could. Now she would just have to figure things out on her own. The prospect had never daunted her before.

She was beginning to realize that she didn't know exactly what she was doing.

****

**Rosalie's POV (One Week Later)**

Rape.

It was a beautiful word, if one forgot its meaning. A striking word, with the smooth quipping 'r' sound adding emphasis to the penultimate 'p'. Swift and dramatic, like the slice of scissors through red thread: Rape.

Royce King had been a rapist.

_Rosalie was nineteen years old the day that she met him, and had already begun climbing the social ladder that Rochester provided. She didn't have any big plans, but she had good ones: elegant living, blue-eyed children scuttling in between the rustle of satin dresses, lots of mirrors. _

_Royce was a powerful man, a handsome one. He was her ideal: formal and refined, with the same blue eyes she had planned on. He courted her dreams as easily as he courted her, with slightly chilled smiles and gentlemanly assurances. Their quick engagement was widely celebrated, and exactly what everyone had expected. Rosalie began to notice that he didn't speak much of his life before coming to New York. She also noticed, a little uneasily, that he didn't touch her often. _

_This changed one night, when Royce came to her with a glint of excitement in his eyes that she'd never seen before. She was at home with her parents at the time, and he politely asked her to take a walk with him. _

_The walk took them farther than she'd expected, into a secluded part of the city. He led her into what looked like an empty building, with promises of a surprise and delicate compliments—the spider to the fly. _

_The rooms inside were, indeed, empty. They were luxurious, though, and Rosalie wondered idly how much he'd paid to reserve the whole building for themselves. Royce took her into a room that Rosalie immediately thought as odd; there was no furniture, no windows, only the plush carpet and rows of closed cabinets lining the walls. When she looked over at him, she observed that he was smiling a real smile, unlike the thin offerings he'd given her before. This reassured her a little. _

_Royce sat her down on the plush floor, and looked into her eyes. "You're beautiful," he said, for what seemed like the hundredth time to Rosalie—and then he took a curved blade out of one of his suit-pockets, and pressed it gently against her throat. _

"_Surprise," he said gently. _

_The next three hours were ones that Rosalie would never discount or forget. They erased all of her innocence, all of her foolishness, and stamped on her soul the incurable sting of cruelty. _

_She would never forget what happened next, either: miserable curse words hurled by a rough, perfect voice, four gunshots._

_Rosalie watched the dead Royce King's body topple sideways, leaving a spray of blood on her naked body. She raised her eyes, despairing and ashamed, to the man in the doorway. _

_He was beautiful. And furious. _

_He was the largest man she had ever seen, every inch of his body covered in hard-looking muscle. His perfectly-sculpted face was contrastingly boyish, his curls were so brown that they were almost black, and his dark hazel eyes were intelligent._

_This man was flawless, her savior—while she was probably the most pitiful thing he had ever seen. And she had been a fool, such a fool! Rosalie closed her eyes, wretched and broken. _

_She opened them when she felt a large hand stroking her hair. The man was kneeling, looking down at her with a world of pain in his eyes. His hands framed her face with a tenderness that couldn't be expected from so large a person. _

"_You didn't let him cut you, did you?" he asked, his tone very serious. Rosalie noted gratefully that he didn't look down to check; his eyes stayed on her face. She shook her head weakly. _

"_Good girl," the man approved, continuing to stroke her blonde curls. "I'm Emmett." _

"_Rosalie," she nearly sobbed. _

"_Oh, baby." Emmett pulled away from her for a moment and took off his jacket. He zipped it up around her easily, without putting her arms through the holes. It was big enough on her to come down to mid-thigh. He held his arms out to her, asking permission. When she nodded, he picked her up bridal-style and began to carry her from the room. _

"_Don't you worry, Rosalie," he said firmly. "I'm going to take care of you." _

The rest was history. After the initial shock at a woman joining the ranks of assassins, Emmett was allowed to train her. Her joining of the Vindici was more of a love story than a tragedy, in her opinion.

Even if the idea of killing people like Royce King had repulsed her, she would have done it gladly for Emmett. He was nothing that she had ever wanted and everything that she had ever needed. He wasn't delicate, chilled or polite: he was strong and hot and rough and raw and perfect. Very little else mattered.

When Bella had first come to the Vindici, Rosalie had allowed it because Emmett saw potential in her. He was right, of course, as he usually was. Bella was exceptionally lethal. But he was also right in the other prediction he had told her of, later on: _Every chick needs a girlfriend, Rose. She's going to be yours. _

She and Bella had circled eachother like cats, at first. As Bella's kitten-claws had sharpened, Rosalie had become more and more jealous of the training time that she got to spend with Emmett. But Emmett's _I'm-a-little-surprised-that-you-care-this-much-about-me _reassurances, as well as Bella's dalliances with other men in the Vindici, more or less erased her potential as a threat.

And Bella really was a beautiful person, no matter how much she tried to hide it. She was witty and loyal and a brunette (something that relieved Rosalie greatly), and it was easy to love her.

Which made it all the more surprising to see her, on a sunny Seattle day, walking alongside a man whose bronze hair was recognizable even from behind. She was sure it was Bella. Her smooth gait and dark mahogany tresses, though pulled back into a ponytail, were familiar. And the way that they moved, the way that they oriented themselves around eachother, reminded Rosalie of watching Emmett from across a room and the way that he would always feel her gaze, and look up, and smile—

The word _rape _did have a certain phonetic beauty, but the word _traitor _was ugly no matter how you spun it.

Rosalie snapped open her cell phone, dialed the number one, and waited. She kept her eyes on Bella.

"Rose?"

"Emmett," said Rosalie tersely, "we have a problem."

**Author's Note, Please Read:**** I received exactly one review for the last chapter. Now, I usually make a point not to whine too much about reviews, or the lack thereof, but I'm pretty sure that there is at least more than one person following this story. The main point of fanfiction is to enable writers to receive feedback from readers, and improve as the result. I'm aware that my story isn't incredibly popular, and that's okay with me. But if I continue to receive one to five reviews for each chapter, there is honestly no point in continuing this story. Please, please extend me the courtesy of your thoughts. **


	11. Chapter 10

**Author's Note: This chapter covers the outing that Rosalie witnessed. Stranger Things Have Happened by Foo Fighters inspired it. **

Chapter Ten

(Same Day as Rosalie's POV)

Bella ignored him pointedly.

She continued to speak into the phone in French, idly admiring the light and rippling quality of the words as she shaped her voice around them. French had always been her favorite of the languages she'd been forced to learn; speaking to Laurent, one of the Vindici's European connections, was a delightful way to keep in practice.

Edward sat next to her on the bench, shamelessly eavesdropping, and not seeming at all perturbed by the shift in language. Bella stifled the urge to glare at him, knowing that his deliberate proximity was just another one of his attempts to make her blush.

This was the first time she'd seen him in a week, and she had been frankly enjoying the calm. It was a shifty word to use, calm, when one was an assassin—but an appropriate one, if she compared the life of steady, monotonous killing with the frustration that Edward unerringly inspired.

Yes, she had been avoiding him. She was willing to admit that to herself.

_Avoid _was another funny word, since the object of her avoidance lived in a totally different city. Edward sat next to her, however, gorgeous and smirking… solid proof that avoidance was necessary.

_Bella had returned to Pike Place today out of necessity rather than inclination. Carlisle had thrown another rapist her way, adding to the stockpile of targets that she carried. In a way, her failure to kill Edward had turned out to be beneficial to the Vindici: she worked furiously, charging through targets faster than ever before, insulted and determined. _

_She'd been following the man's trail down one of the market's fishy back roads, quick steps and quiet breathing, when two things happened simultaneously. Both of them were unrelated to each other, and serious hindrances to her mission. _

_Her phone rang; a disjointed, familiar sensation arched her spine. Bella addressed the second occurrence first, almost positive of its source. Her heart-rate increasing, she turned around _

_and it was Him. _

_Their eyes met. She let out an exasperated huff._

_  
She answered the phone, turning her back to Edward, though she could feel his approach behind her. "Mon cher," Laurent crooned, his traditional greeting. Bella adopted her very best pleasantly-surprised voice, all the while moving with resignation to the nearest bench._

She ended the call, turning to appraise her unwelcome bench neighbor. He met her gaze levelly, seriously, but with amusement behind his eyes. His expression reminded her of the last night she'd seen him, and she wondered whether they would be continuing in the same tone. She hoped that wasn't the case—it was so much easier to pretend with him, to ignore the intensity between them.

"_Interrompais-je quelque chose_?" Edward asked, by way of greeting. His accent was perfect.

"_Bien sûr vous étiez, vous écoutant aux portes le bâtard_," she answered irritably, automatically responding in French. "So, what's your cover for stalking me today?" she added, now in English. "Another midday meal? Or are you just doing this to annoy me?"

"Moi?" replied Edward.

She looked at him, got up, and started walking.

He sighed, following her. "I thought maybe we wouldn't attempt to kill eachother today."

"Well, it hasn't done much good so far, so I guess I can see your reasoning."

"You always have a snarky answer prepared, don't you, Bella? God, have you ever just _listened_?"

"_Non_," she snapped.

They stood glaring at each other; eyes narrowed and uncompromising, tiger eye meeting dark malachite. For a moment, Bella wondered if he was going to kill her after all.

But then, slowly, grudgingly, humor returned to their faces. Bella felt the unwilling smile spread over her face, along with a strange rush of pleasure as Edward smiled back at her. His eyes were so much lighter when he smiled, she noted—when he smiled at her, that way—

This time when he sighed in defeat, she sighed along with him.

Edward nodded as if she had given him an answer, and said, "So, the Bronte sisters, huh?"

She laughed, surprised. "Yeah." They began walking, wandering along the streets without any particular aim or goal in mind.

"But you like Emily more than Charlotte? Or Anne," he added as an afterthought.

Bella rolled her eyes, dismissing Anne completely. "I _like _Emily more than Charlotte. That doesn't mean I _respect_ her more. Charlotte was brilliant, and she knew what she was doing when it came to writing. Structure-wise, Emily was all over the place. If her story had been anything other than Wuthering Heights, she'd be nothing more than an awkward stain on Charlotte's memory." She stopped talking with difficulty, ready to launch into full lecture-mode, and annoyed at herself for exposing her secret obsession with classic literature. She had only ever talked literature with Jasper before.

"And what is it that you find so fascinating about Wuthering Heights? _I __**am **__Heathcliffe_?" he quoted, playfully mocking.

He'd hit the nail so squarely on the head that she felt the color rising in her cheeks, infuriating her. She answered quickly, hoping to distract him. "Yes, I guess that's it. Emily's writing is raw and powerful because of the all-consuming passion in her characters. The idea of being so in love with someone that you can't live without them…to the average reader, it's attractive."

"But you're not the average reader?" he asked, shaking his bronze hair off his forehead, one eyebrow raised unconsciously.

Bella shrugged with a slightly sad smile, tossing her own pony tail back over her shoulder. "I used to be."

It was true. In the days before Emmett found her, she'd harbored her own wishes of an all-consuming passion. As Isabella Swan, she'd hoped for someone who would look past her quietness and plainness, who would love and accept her unconditionally.

Now, Bella Vindici stood, jaded and gorgeous, in front of the one man who could have been everything she'd wished for…the same man that she could never, ever have.

And right now he was looking at her like he knew—and owned—her soul.

She started talking again, realizing that she could distract him with her words, with her questions. She posed some of the same questions he had aimed at her (_So, Shakespeare, huh?) _and some new ones, finding after a while that she was legitimately curious.

Edward answered her questions readily, surprising her with his answers. He brought up just the right topics, silly and safe, politics and religion and what Saturday morning shows she'd liked as a child. But he never brought up her work or her family, a courtesy that she returned.

They spent the rest of the afternoon in this manner, slinging stories like weapons, all shared smiles and light bickering.

At one point, she became aware of the way that she was moving around him, automatically. It was odd, but whenever Edward shifted his weight even the tiniest bit, she moved without thinking. He seemed to be moving in a similar way, orienting himself around her.

Bella found herself comparing this situation to her past with Jasper once again…but when she and Jasper moved together, they had been exact copies of eachother, the same person. Edward was, if anything, the opposite of Bella. Warm where she was cool, thoughtful where she was stubborn, sweet where she was spicy.

She vaguely noticed the eyes that followed them across the walkways, drawn irresistibly to the moving picture of beauty and laughter and heat that they provided. Though their clothes were muted and unassuming, to the others they were like twin flames against a black background.

They finally found a secluded corner of the city and adopted it. Bella was sure she knew what Edward had been doing all day—engaging her, fascinating her deliberately, diverting her from the fact that what they were doing was no longer excusable. He was feeding his own craving for her company by tempting hers for him.

There had been touches, too. Casual, innocent touches that were-or-were-not deliberately staged to defeat her. Whenever he leaned in closer to speak, or brushed her fingers with his, she was assaulted by his scent and his proximity. Each time, her breath hitched and her cheeks became uncharacteristically rosy. And each time, Edward turned his head and smiled at her. Not in triumph, but as a rueful acknowledgment of the fact that they were the same, partners in the struggle against the insane force that drew them together. He was carefully testing her; she was damning herself by giving him results.

For years, Bella's life had been an exercise of control and restraint. She had been taught to endure pain beyond imagining, she had been taught to kill without flinching. But they had never taught her how to ignore the kind of helpless, desperate yearning that filled her now. There had been no classes, no training sessions for this.

She wondered exactly how long it would be before one of them caved. Or died.

"So, what would you change?" Bella asked, lounging lazily against the hard wall of the building. "Since you think _they took away our lives_, I'm guessing there's a substantial list." She glanced at him slyly from under her eyelashes.

Edward chuckled drowsily, running a hand through his already-tousled bronze hair. She watched him, fighting the powerful urge to touch him, to tug at his dark green sweater until he was hovering over her, hair curling deliciously over his forehead, surprised and eager…

"It is a pretty long list," Edward conceded, still standing next to her. "There are people I wish had stayed, and some people I wish hadn't shown up in the first place. There's a completely different course my life would have taken." He lifted his head to survey the harmless-looking clouds above them. "I probably would have been a lawyer."

"I'd have been a writer," Bella volunteered, feeling that his admission deserved one in return. Ever since their afternoon at Pike's Place, they'd made a point to stay on equal footing. She added dryly, "Or maybe a journalist, if I ever grew the backbone required."

Edward perked up a little, his eyes flicking over to her in interest and disbelief. "Backbone? Don't tell me you were a wuss, I'll just laugh at you."

"One of the worst," Bella assured him cheerfully. "I was the shyest, sweetest, mousiest little coward you ever did see. This was before I joined the business, though."

"Hmm." Edward gazed at her, his mossy eyes piercingly speculative. "I would have liked to meet you back then."

She laughed uneasily. "It'd be a lot easier to kill me, I suppose. But trust me, I bored the hell out of myself."

He grinned. Opened his mouth to say something—

A nervous tingle ran down Bella's back, driven by pure instinct. She acted on that instinct automatically, launching herself at Edward, making sure to use all of her weight to pull him down.

"Fuck, Bella," spat Edward furiously from beneath her, "don't make me hurt—"

At that second, a bullet embedded itself into the wall of the building precisely where his head had been.

Comprehension flickered in his eyes. Instead of kicking her off him, he lifted her in one arm, reaching for his holster with the other. By the time he had aimed his gun, Bella was already firing.

The shooter was short, male, Hispanic, and obviously skilled. He had leveled a long-range from a window in the opposite building. Even as he fell under their bullets, Bella cursed her own laziness. The surreality of the day in general had given her a false sense of security, enabling her to forget to secure the buildings around them. This could never happen again—because of her carelessness, Edward could be dead right now.

Edward could be dead right now.

Bella let out a low moan as she realized what a negative reaction the thoughts elicited from her. The idea of an Edward _ended_, an Edward _over_ inspired something inside her that was almost frantic. Her moan was one of complete despair, the sound of a woman who has finally realized that her life is over. Several thoughts were clear in her mind: If she didn't master this, it would be the end of her. But if she _did _master it, and found that she _could _kill him…what would she have then? Would not her ending situation in both scenarios be essentially the same?

_He's gorgeous, that's all, _she stuttered to herself. _This is all just sexual attraction, and you're making it into more than it is. A good __**Scopo**__ is a dead __**Scopo**__. A good enemy is a dead enemy. _

Edward was staring at her, watching the conflict on her face, his eyes bright but inscrutable. Bella met his gaze blankly for several long moments, before realizing that there was expectation in his stare, the demand for an explanation.

For the first time in years, she found her eyes dropping under someone's gaze. "Didn't want the bastard stealing my thunder," she mumbled half-heartedly.

This seemed to be enough of an acknowledgment for Edward, who strode forward to take her hands in both of his. The bronze lock that always curled over his forehead was doing so, in perfect accordance with her earlier fantasy. His green eyes locked on hers, earnest and probing…a smile slowly lit his face, and never in her life had Bella seen something so artlessly, utterly beautiful.

"Edward," she warned nervously, her voice not coming out as sharply as she'd intended. She had been going for _Edward, I'm an assassin and you have exactly three seconds to live_, but what had come out was more along the lines of _Edward, kiss me_.

"Give me a minute," murmured Edward, whose look had turned from gratitude to hunger. He placed his hands on her shoulders. Bella froze, bracing herself for the moment that she would have to jerk away. But his hands were more persuasive than they were demanding, and she relaxed slightly.

Slowly, Edward moved his hands down her arms. His touch made her skin so sensitive that Bella was almost positive that she made some sort of sound during his downward progress to her wrists. He grasped her wrists gently, and then began to pull them behind her back.

She let out a sharp gasp of protest, though she once again failed to muster up the right level of indignation.

"Shh," Edward soothed. Bella hadn't been aware that he was guiding her backward until she felt the warm stone against her back. He held her there, heated promise in his emerald eyes, and Bella felt her own eyes slide closed despite themselves…

Had he pinned her like this before? The move felt so familiar to her, the hard muscle and soft sighs, so natural, and it wasn't because it had played in almost every single one of her fantasies…

_**Oh God, I can hardly breathe. Help me. **_

He was leaning closer—she was nearly panting with anticipation—he was drawing this out, teasing her—

_Yes_, sang Bella's body.

_No, _sang Bella's—

_No? _

Wait.

"No," Bella snarled. She hurled him off of her with vicious force, and followed by grasping his arms and shoving him back against the wall, into the very position he had been holding her in.

They did make a point to stay on equal footing, after all.

"Don't play with me," she warned quietly.

"This is starting to get a little repetitive," observed Edward. He broke her hold easily, stepping away from the wall, and sighed. "But at least you get marks for consistency."

She whirled on him. "I don't know how you can find humor in a fucked-up situation like—" She paused, surprised. "How the hell are you _bleeding_?"

He was. Thick red liquid dripped steadily from his upper arm, leaving crimson trails across his skin. Bella stared in unprecedented feminine horror.

"Did I..?"

Edward shook his head, looking grimly at a sharp and bloodied shard of glass on the ground. "Not this time."

Bella approached, giving the culprit a passing glare. "Come here." She reached for the pony tail holder into which she had slung her hair this morning, and loosed it quickly. Dark curls slithered over her shoulders and past her waist.

He held out his arm silently, and she began to carefully slide the hair band up. By the time she reached his bicep, the elastic band was more than tight enough to serve as a tourniquet. She settled it above the slice in his skin, and watched as the blocked-off skin began to turn pink.

When she looked up at him, satisfied with her handiwork, she found Edward looking back with a slightly dazed expression.

"What?" she demanded, self-conscious.

"Your _hair_," he breathed in fascination.

Warmth shot through her veins, but she stifled the blush. Her lips curved wickedly. "I was thinking about cutting it all off," she said, with calculated nonchalance.

Edward's eyes darkened, and she felt a little surge of triumph.

Finally, his eyes dropped to the makeshift tourniquet she'd created, and he smiled. "Very professional."

"A dead body is awfully conspicuous," Bella hinted.

He blinked. "Oh! Yes, come on."

They entered the other building and made their way up to the room with the body. Edward moved, Bella noticed, as if he wasn't injured at all.

"I wonder who hired him?" muttered Edward on their way up the stairs, half to himself.

Bella gave a tired chuckle. "He's not mine, if that's what you're asking."

He grinned. "Jesus, I hope not. I'm having enough trouble with just one of you."

They entered the room together, silently, and surveyed the dead man before them. There wasn't much blood on the floor around him…whichever one of them had made the killing shot, it was wonderfully clean…and in his limp hand was a dead cell phone. Bella could imagine the man's frantic hope as he reached for his last resource, and then his despair as he realized that the lifeline didn't exist.

"Tattoos," Edward suggested grimly, and she nodded in silent agreement. An assassin's tattoos held great importance. They served as a sort of i.D card, a dead give-away to enemies and a door-opener to friends.

They checked the back of his neck and even took off his bloodied shirt, but there were no markings. Whoever had hired this man to kill one (or both) of them, it had been a mercenary transaction. She voiced this idea, and Edward nodded acknowledgment, his brows pulled together in frustration.

The body was disposed of easily, without the thoroughness that Bella usually exercised. They didn't have enough time to do it properly, as the sun was going down quickly. For two assassins not wanting to be seen together, skulking around after dark was the quickest way to be discovered.

It was time to part ways, that was certain. The couple stood together on the thin ledge of the empty building, Bella shifting awkwardly, Edward's eyes following her movements.

When she finally realized that he wasn't going to make things easy for her, she whispered hurriedly, "I have to go."

Edward smiled, a little harshly. "You have somewhere to be, then?"

"Yes—_home_," she insisted, aggravated by his expression and accusatory tone. "Don't you?"

Though his eyes remained intent and hot on her face, he shrugged dismissively. This angered her still further, and a phrase jolted her mind, one that she had heard Jasper say several times before, disparaging and bitter: _Spoiled rich kid_. That's what Edward was. She reminded him of his own responsibilities, and he shrugged them off like some kind of hatchet bourgeois. Her back arched like a cat, preparing for battle.

"It's so damn _easy _for you, isn't it? Breaking the rules? Well, here's a news flash for you: not all of us are Esme's offspring! Not all of us get to do whatever we want, _some _of us actually have a job to do, and _some _of us are needed back home, and…" she looked at him, and his eyes weren't cold or hard. He was wincing with every word she said, but his eyes hadn't lost their warmth, and they seemed as if they grudgingly understood, and Bella said, "Why are you _doing_ this to me?"

It was confusing and infuriating, how he could do things like this—how he could make her feel guilty and disloyal with nothing more than a glance, how he could make her feel like she was shirking the one person who truly was important.

This finally, made him angry. "_Why am I __**doing **__this to you_?" he growled. "It's nothing different from what you do to me—every time I see you. The only difference is that you've deluded yourself into this ridiculous sense of duty to the people who ruined your life. I don't have that, Bella. I can't lie to myself like that, and all I have is—" he stopped. Ran a hand through his bronze hair in frustration.

"Just go, Bella," he said. "If you're going to go, then go." Just like the last time she left, his voice was tired, defeated. Like there were only so many times that he could watch her leave.

And she didn't really _want _to leave, she realized. Especially not when he was looking at her like that, eyes resolute and wounded. Without her own permission, Bella's hand rose to rest on his unharmed bicep. A gesture of comfort.

Just like that, Edward's eyes softened. He placed his hand over hers, trapping it there, and she felt her own tension loosen and release. It was suddenly so easy, just standing there with him, so simple and blissful and right…and if she kissed him now, she knew that it wouldn't be hurried or frantic, but slow and sublime. She looked up at him, at the perfect face that had begun to shape her life, and he looked down at her. For just a moment, it was like it had been the first time she'd seen him—that spark of recognition, uncomplicated and accepting. Everything that she wasn't, and yet she felt it.

"I wish it was this easy," she said, her voice oddly quiet and dreamy. She almost wondered if she _was _dreaming, if this whole surreal day had just been a product of her imagination.

"It _could _be," Edward replied, suddenly seductive. His voice caressed her ears, low and velvet smooth. Green eyes held her vision; she stared at him, her previous thoughts fleeing like feeble wisps of smoke.

"What would you have me do?" Bella asked. In the back of her mind, she noted that the words didn't sound exactly rhetorical.

"Quite a few things, actually," Edward admitted cheekily, reaching out and playing with a tendril of her hair.

She laughed, pulling away her hand. His comment had broken her reverie. "Well, I can't do any of them. You know I can't…at least not in this lifetime," she finished. At the moment, her words sounded like truth. "I really do have to go. And you need to see a healer. Your arm is hideous."

He shrugged again, cavalier. "It's nothing."

"You're not the one who has to look at it," Bella retorted, half teasing and half worried that he wouldn't do anything about his injury. "Go get help. But I'll see you—when I can." She cringed slightly as she said the words, feeling like one of those virginal, doe-eyed damsels in movies. Even as she cringed, though, she felt the irreversibility of her statement. She _would _find him; there was no longer much choice.

Edward smiled, too, but not in mockery. His eyes glittered down at her, seeming to try to convey something he wasn't willing to say. "I'll see you, then."

He turned to leave, and Bella could feel her body responding. Could feel herself beginning to take the first step that would allow her to follow him. But she clenched her fists, and held herself still; she wasn't allowed to be with him. She wasn't allowed to do any of the things she had done today.

Once he was out of sight, Bella swiveled and began to traverse the city buildings. She moved along the ledges easily, since the territory was familiar to her. Edward hadn't known it, but they'd ended up fairly close to Vindici home base.

A way to enter home base other than through the front door was through a small door in the flat roof. A Vindici still had to use fingerprint scanning to open the trap door, but the route was easier and went straight to the attic. Ten minutes after her conversation with Edward, Bella found herself vaulting onto the roof of home base.

She righted herself, and sighed; with her exhale she pushed away the clandestine events of the day, as well as the accumulation of worries that always abated when she returned home. Inhaling, Bella opened her eyes and immediately stiffened.

Emmett was waiting for her in the shadows.

**Author's Note:**

**First of all, Translations... **

**_Interrompais-je quelque chose?_--Did I interrupt something? **

**_Bien sûr vous étiez, vous écoutant aux portes le bâtard_.--Of course you did, you eavesdropping bastard. **

**All right, I need to thank you all for the astounding responses you gave me last chapter. They were incredibly encouraging, and I plan on continuing to update The Attic on a once-monthly basis. I'd especially like to thank the readers like Legna989, who have consistently reviewed this story with detailed and helpful feedback. Please continue to give me your thoughts, concerns, requests, etc. If you have a certain character you'd like to hear from in future chapters, I'll certainly consider your suggestions. And yes, EPOV is coming soon. **

**Just curious--who is your favorite Bronte sister and why? **

**--Kaitipoola  
**


	12. Chapter 11

**A/N: Inspired by Wonderwall by Ryan Adams.**

**Chapter Eleven**

**Edward's POV**

He was trying very hard to be patient.

She was a sprite, an enigma, fierce and fleeting; one moment his, the next moment all her own. He could tame her for short moments, small sweet segments of time, but he could never catch her. No matter how nonthreatening his appearance was, no matter how charming his smiles, he could never catch her. Every time Edward tried, she would blaze at him, defensive and unreachable. It was slowly driving him insane.

He was trying very hard to be patient—really. But how was one patient with a tigress?

The image of that feline had begun to come up whenever he thought of Bella. With those dark, gold-flecked eyes, warm and wild…her luxurious mane of hair had made him think of a lion at first, but that didn't fit. Lions lived in prides, and were often dependent on each other. Bella, like the tiger, hunted alone.

She wasn't _meant_ to work alone, though. Edward could sense this, beneath the cold façade she put up. Bella needed a partner—a challenger, an equal—to fully bloom. Just as he did. Edward and Bella separate were formidable; Edward and Bella together would be an unreckonable force.

Alice had said as much to him, the last time he'd seen her. She'd said that, if certain things happened and Edward played his cards exactly right, they would be magnificent together. She'd also told him that getting Bella to realize this would be a long and hazardous journey. A fact that he was now beginning to appreciate.

"_Don't push Bella too hard," _Alice said. _"Try to keep the right perspective." _

And he was trying. Truly, it was harder to see Bella as the heartless jade she masqueraded as than it was to see the blushing warmth and vulnerability that she tried to hide. From almost the first moment he had seen her, Edward had thought of her as _his_, and that had erased from his cognition any imperfections in her that might exist.

The only imperfection that could give him serious trouble was her stubbornness. She was too stubborn to give in to her attraction to him, and too stubborn to admit that she had been doing nothing but wasting her life these past years. She was too dedicated to the Vindici to admit these things, too frustratingly selfless. Edward wondered if she had ever disobeyed an order once in the past three years, just to see what it was like.

He was the opposite of her in nearly every way: clear-sighted, modest and selfish. Selfish enough to want to take her, even though she had sworn herself to something else.

Edward hadn't exactly sworn himself in to Scopo Finale. His initiation had been more a matter of biology than of personal inclination. Maybe that was why he wouldn't feel any guilt in leaving: he had never lied to himself about his work. He had never attached himself to it, and he'd tried to avoid creating friendships with his fellow assassins. Alice had been the exception to this rule…Tanya and other girls had been the mistake…and as for Esme, well, he _was _her mistake.

There had been partners on missions who had attempted to develop a camaraderie, both male and female. None of them got very far. Jacob, for instance, on Edward's last mission, had nearly gotten himself shot during a mealtime try at male-bonding.

"_So, you're taking your time with that Vindici girl, huh? Can't really blame you, we all know she's sexy as hell— guess I'd be drawing this out, too, if I were you. (raising his glass) Here's to hot-as-fuck enemies, man." _

Edward had not killed him.

No one at home was as frustrating to his cause as Bella herself, however. Though her actions said otherwise, her words continually denied him. _Stop it, Edward. No, Edward. Dammit, Edward, why are you __**doing**__ this to me? _

Edward sat alone with his thoughts, lounging in the spot on the couch that had always been reserved for Alice. He imagined her dainty little form next to him, clad in overalls and fairy wings, giving him the advice that he sorely needed. _Follow your instincts, Edward, _she might say, tapping the side of her head.

Well, that wouldn't help him keep a level head. His ruling instinct was that Bella was _his_, and that she was perfect, and her smell—

her smell—

Moonlit lavender, along with a little of the salty musk of the sea. The scent had become so intoxicatingly familiar to him that he would know it anywhere. He'd first smelled her a week ago, during that crazy night on the roof, and the effect had been exacerbated by her lily-white neck and dark pouted lips and wanting eyes.

He loved her most for her vulnerable moments, the ones that she didn't think he saw, the moments that belied her denials. When she smiled at a little girl, that first afternoon at Pike Place… whenever she blushed crimson under his gaze, unbound and hot…when she said his name like she meant it…when she finally let loose and trusted him enough to take the lead, just for a few moments…when she smiled into his eyes, almost as if she couldn't help it, and _I know_, he always wanted to tell her, because he understood, perfectly… His attraction to Bella was an entire species in itself, something insinuating and uncontrollable.

It was something he was willing to fight for. _She _was something he was willing to fight for.

Alice had told him all of the possible outcomes with Bella. There were two of them. In one, either she or Edward ended up dead; in the other, they survived _together_. Never had Alice mentioned the couple simply giving up on each other, calling it quits and going back to their business. He understood why, now…it was impossible for their situation to dwell in anything but extremes. The gods were toying with them shamelessly, and apparently they had a flare for the dramatic, because things would either go _very _right or _very _wrong. Either way would be a tale worth telling, but Edward had his preferences.

He took the time to imagine a different character beside him. A man whose advice he would value above all others, though it might not be perfectly applicable in his current situation. A man with the same bronze hair, the same half-grin and moss-green eyes as his, but with a few more lines on his face.

"_Stick to what you know," _said Edward's father, pointing to the piano beside him. That memory was one of the few ones before the night of his death that Edward could still remember with complete clarity.

Edward's mind drifted to the grand piano in the next room. He'd always felt a sort of grudging love for it. Grudging because it had been a compensational, please-love-me-anyway gift from his mother, but still beloved because of the beauty and purity of the music it created. Edward had found that no matter what the original intention for an instrument was, the instrument's sound would eventually morph to align with its true purpose.

Perhaps Bella was the same, he thought. Perhaps they both were the same. They had both been shoved into a mold that didn't fit, had both been trained into a business that went against their true natures, but their true selves still managed to make themselves known in little spurts. Bella, with her occasional bright flashes of hidden color and warmth, was showing herself as she was meant to be. Her true purpose.

_Bella is the music_, Edward realized. It didn't matter to him that she was confused and over-stubborn; it was _her _soul, and no one else's, that comprised the notes.

"Stick to what you know," his father had said, and Edward did know. He knew Bella, and he wanted her, and he knew she wanted him, too. Maybe things would end up being very good, after all, despite the meddling of the gods. Maybe, after years of loneliness, he could now be given a forbidden taste of happiness.

His fingers curled more tightly around the key perched on his palm, the silent testament to a cautious and otherwise nameless hope. Patience wasn't Edward's strong suit, no, but he was willing to wait for this. Though it came slowly, slowly, his moment was coming.

He wasn't giving up on her yet.

**Author's Note: The chapter I posted yesterday has received two reviews. It's a step up from chapter eight, but even more damaging to my self-esteem. Honestly, readers, I'm a Running Start college student. My life is often crammed with schoolwork, and it takes a substantial amount of time to write this story. It is disheartening to put in that amount of work and get so little feedback. You other writers out there understand the craving for comments, criticisms, praise. **

**I really appreciated the feedback you all gave me for chapter nine. Double digits were a first. Those of you that think this story is worthwhile, please give me your thoughts, whether they are for this little chapter or the last one. A review only takes a minute, and I'd be truly grateful. **

**--Kaitipoola **


	13. Chapter 12

**A/N: Sorry about the wait--one of those computer freaks happened and I had to start the chapter all over from scratch. This chapter was inspired by In For the Kill by La Roux. **

**Chapter Twelve**

_**Edward's body lay sprawled across the floor of the balcony, eerily still. Blood was spreading from the bullet hole between his ribs, dyeing red the crisp white cotton of his shirt. Another line of blood trickled from between his lips; his eyes, once so bright with energy and meaning, were now glazed and vacant. **_

_**Bella noted all of these things, holding the still-smoking gun limply at her side. Even as her eyes glued themselves to Edward's form, wide and dry with eagerness, she realized that she had done it…she had killed him, after all of the months of wanting and struggle…her job was finished. As this thought occurred, she vaguely felt something wrench and break away from her to drift, free and wild in the breeze. **_

_**So, this was what insanity felt like? **_

_**Like it was the most natural thing in the world, Bella knelt and began to stroke the messy bronze hair, which was becoming wet with the blood that pooled on the floor. She reached out to trace his face with her other hand. Gently over the unseeing eyes, shaping more firmly along the nose and cheekbones, and then over his lips, slow and tender to the point of pain. Edward's lips were much cooler to the touch than she had imagined, and she suddenly thought that she'd never actually kissed him. It would be too much irony to do it now, but her fingers were intimate as they stroked his lifeless face. Bella dismissed the loss; she was touching him, after all. And touching him, without hesitation or fear, was all she had ever wanted. **_

_**Insanity was underrated, she decided. **_

"_**Bella?" said a familiar voice behind her, a voice low with the smoothest suggestion of a southern twang. **_

_**Bella's eyes rose, unwillingly, to rest on Jasper. **_

"_**You killed him," breathed Jasper, half-disbelieving. "You did what I couldn't do." His eyes swept over her and then Edward's prone form, as he added, "You'll never have him now." **_

_**Before he had even begun to speak, Bella's eyes had resumed their perusal of Edward's face, which was hers and still beautiful beautiful beautiful…**_

"_**Oh, I see," she murmured. **_

_**Jasper's voice was now filled with satisfaction, an odd sort of triumph. "You see what you've done, Bella, don't you? Just look at him. Awful dead, ain't he?" **_

"_**Awful dead," Bella echoed. She added dreamily, "I'll be right there." As if of its own accord, her hand slid along the floor toward the gun. **_

_**Jasper, who had been clinically assessing Edward's body, now raised his eyes to her with fascinated expectation. **_

_**Slowly, almost lazily, she raised the gun to rest on her temple. "Just a sec," she whispered, her eyes always on Edward's face, her other hand still stroking his hair. "Be right there."**_

"_**I dare you!" Jasper crowed. **_

_**She pulled the trigger. **_

***

Bella forced herself to relax under Emmett's steady gaze. "Smooth," she complimented him, her voice light and easy, but her eyes were assessing.

Emmett's face was probably a mirror of Bella's: smiling warmly, but with eyes that belied the gesture. "Hey, Bella," he said casually. "Thought I might find you up here." In the absence of anything to lean against, he took a seat on the roof.

A little wary, Bella strode forward and sat opposite him. She kept her back straight and raised her eyebrows in silent inquiry. If he expected her to act like meeting him on the roof was a commonplace, he was mistaken.

But Emmett wasn't even looking at her; his eyes were trained upward, on the rare stars illuminating the pelt of black above them. He looked thoughtful; his brow was slightly furrowed, his mouth set as if pushing back words.

"Where's Rose?" she asked, prodding him forward.

His eyes narrowed slightly. "She's on her next hit," he answered a little stiffly. "Louisiana."

Bella nodded. Vindici's assignments often led them across more than one state, if the target was tricky. Though she was one of the assassins who usually dealt with immediate threats, which were local, she herself had been sent out on missions as far away as Europe.

"So," Emmett finally began, "how are _yours _doing?"

His words were not subtle. They weren't meant to be. Bella tensed, finally realizing the point of his visit.

"They're doing well," she replied, fighting the rising panic. "I get through them pretty quickly." Bella smiled at him without difficulty, forcing herself to keep her muscles loose and relaxed. She knew that he was trying to trap her into some kind of telling response, and she refused to give one to him.

"All but one, right?" asked Emmett carefully. "Masen?"

"That's right," she answered calmly. Her gaze was level; maybe, if she was lucky, she could bluff him into shutting up and going to bed.

But all thoughts of calm or composure were obliterated by his next sentence.

"I could help you with him, you know. If you need an extra—"

"You won't _touch _him," she practically snarled. She didn't say it; she didn't have to, as the words hung silently in the air between them: _He's mine. _

Bella knew that she had just completely and idiotically blown her cover, but the thought of anyone else doing him harm sparked something feral inside her. Edward was _hers_. Hers to want, hers to hate, hers to kill…hers to keep alive.

Emmett's voice was suddenly earnest, dreadfully earnest. "Bella, what the hell have you done?"

"Wait—Em, hold on—" she said, a little alarmed at the expression on his face, far too hurt, far too betrayed, almost as if he knew something was going to happen, as if he was _mourning _her already…

He leapt to his feet, as if sitting was too placid to suit his emotions, and began to pace in front of her. "I _saved _you," he spat, uncharacteristically bitter, acting as if she hadn't spoken. "I put myself on the line to keep you alive, when you were nothing but a pathetic little bug, and you throw it all away for _this_? For _him_? For that pathetic momma's boy, that sniveling infant aristocrat—"

"Emmett!"

"NO!" he shouted, enraged. Then, wearily, "Jesus Christ." He ran a hand through his dark curls, sighed, and raised his eyes to look at her.

That look, tired but resolved, was more than enough to put her into fight mode. As she rose to her feet, her muscles clenched once more, and this time, she welcomed the unsteady rush of adrenaline. She began to lie rapidly, grasping at whatever hold she could find.

"Emmett, you have it all wrong," she stated. "I forgive you and everything, but before you go hurling accusations, at least check with Carlisle first. Of course you can't kill Masen! Why do you think I haven't killed him before now? You _know _whose son he is, right?"

There was no way to misinterpret what she was insinuating: that it had been her plan to capture and ransom Edward all along. It was a valid idea; it wasn't like she would have been the first one to try it. And, in fact, Carlisle _had _mentioned the idea in passing to her once, so the lie rested more naturally on her lips. Silently, Bella congratulated herself. In her wild last ditch effort, she had actually come up with something that made sense.

Emmett began to laugh at her.

It was not a pleasant sound, not the usual good-natured boom of mirth that she was used to. Bella felt as though he had slapped her. Emmett chuckled darkly once more, shaking his head, and then flawlessly called her bluff. "I knew you when you weren't the deadly little vixen you are now, Bella. You might be able to lie to everyone else, but you'll never be able to lie to me."

So her attempt had failed, after all. It had been a desperate effort, her last chance to end this peacefully. Bella's spine straightened, muscles locking for battle. She would defend Edward. There was no other choice.

She took a slow step toward Emmett. "Aw, honey," she said gently. "Don't make me kill you."

The words reverberated between them, an exact echo of the words Emmett had used with her on the day that he first found her. They seemed to affect Emmett—he flinched at the memory—but he held his ground.

"I didn't mean it when I first said it," he answered. "But those words might have to come true, now."

She laughed, insultingly dismissive. "You can't." And she knew, as she said this, that it was the truth. One assassin, or even three, would be no match for her now. She was too lethal; Emmett had done his job in training her too well.

"Six could," Emmett said, as if they were thinking the same thing. His tone was serious and flat as stone. "Six of us could do it, Bella. And we'll _have _to, once Aro gives the order. Which you know he will—as soon as he hears what you've done."

"Oh, so you _are _going to tell him, then," Bella realized tiredly. This was why Emmett looked so miserable. Someone had figured her secret out and tipped him off, leaving him with the responsibility of verifying and reporting it.

"It's called loyalty," Emmett snapped. "Maybe you should try it sometime."

But she _had_ been loyal, Bella thought, loyal to the very best of her ability. She had never given Edward any information about the Vindici, she had never taken orders from the other side of the line—her one fault, her one deadly vice, had been her inability to kill Edward Masen. Did this vice make her a traitor? Was it worthy of the target that was now on her head?

Her dark eyes rose to meet his hazel ones, and she realized that his eyes were wet. "Oh, Emmett," she began involuntarily, and then stopped herself. She had always been fond of Emmett—loved him, even. And now he was going to have her killed, for reasons that she understood.

"You're like my sister," he said lowly, almost brokenly. "Why couldn't you just do it, Bell? You knew what would happen—you know what has to happen."

She processed his words numbly. So, this was how it would end. Emmett had brought her into this life, and he would be the one to send her out of it. As soon as their interview was over, he would go to Aro or Carlisle, either of whom might decide to shoot her personally. Randomly, she wondered whether Carlisle would try to give her last rites to her before he pulled the trigger.

She also wondered exactly how many lives had been lost for her blunder. Her own, obviously. She was coming to terms with that. But, heaven forbid, Edward's?

The thought was unbearable—inexcusable.

For the first time in years, she found herself begging.

"Please, Emmett, I know what you have to do, but please…just let Masen go. I don't have to have him, just let him live. It's all I want."

Emmett shook his head again, as if he didn't want to believe what he was hearing. "Traitorous bitch," he sighed, and the words held a finality to them that made Bella's heart pause in her chest.

He turned to leave, Oh God, to leave and tell Aro and send everyone after Edward, because she hadn't been able to do the job, Edward dead and cold on the ground, Oh no, _wait_—

"Emmett, what if you had been assigned to Rose?"

The sentence sliced through the darkness, overly loud because she had blurted the words unthinkingly, hoping only to halt his progress. And she understood, after she had said them, that her earlier lie had _not _been her last chance, nor had it been born of true desperation. Bella felt the true desperation now, felt it like salt in her mouth, and knew that only such a frantic state could cause her to admit the depth of her feelings for Edward. She was being more honest with Emmett now than she had ever been to herself.

Then her head cleared…the moment was gone.

Emmett did halt, and she watched anxiously, and for at least a dozen heartbeats there was silence.

Finally, he said, "If you think that bringing Rose into this will change anything—"

"I want to know, Emmett. Before you judge me for my sins, I'd like you to answer the question."

Emmett's left shoulder jerked upwards irritably, as if he was trying to shake off a fly. "I would…fuck." He tensed a little, and Bella was sure he was imagining Rosalie's death at his own hands, as she had imagined Edward's so many times before. She could completely empathize with the repulsion in Emmett's posture. "Fuck," he repeated. "I…don't know."

"Would you kill her?" Bella prodded, her voice soft, but watching him like a hawk. If she could just nudge him in the right direction a little, both she and Edward would be safe. For a moment, she acknowledged a small pinprick of guilt for manipulating Emmett, and for possibly exaggerating her feelings for Edward—which she wasn't sure of herself—to keep him alive. She _did _love Emmett, after all, and he had always dealt honestly with her. But Edward _would_ be alive if she succeeded, that was a fact, and it was all that mattered. All that mattered. Nothing had ever been as important as this, she knew instinctively.

Jasper? No one.

Charlie and Renee? A trifle.

Emmett, who stood before her now, honest and conflicted? He was a pawn in her chess game, strategically placed to protect the King. His discovery of her secret was irksome, and maybe a little dangerous, but she knew now that she could use it to turn him into an ally. Even now, as she considered this, Emmett was wavering: Bella could feel it. In just a moment, he would be hers.

Rosalie might be a little more difficult, because she was more wary and, to be honest, less morally inclined. But she of all people would understand finding love in unexpected places; she would sympathize, because she had Emmett.

"It's not the same," Emmett mumbled eventually, his back still to her.

"Who are you to tell me it's not the same?" demanded Bella, suddenly impassioned. "What's the difference between us, other than the fact that you're allowed to have yours and I can't have mine?"

Emmett growled in frustration, feeling the trap that she was laying around him. Bella was choking him with his conscience.

"You're putting me in a fuck-all position, Bell," he said roughly. "I don't know how you expect me to help you."

Now she knew that he was on her side, even if he didn't know it himself—because she hadn't asked for his help.

"I'm no traitor, Emmett," she soothed. "I haven't broken the rules, and I haven't given anything away. You know me better than that, Em. But I just can't kill Masen. I won't. You…please, you have to understand that."

She waited patiently, expectantly, for him to turn around.

After a few more heartbeats, he did, and Bella saw on his face what he had been trying to hide from her. He was with her completely, friendly soul that he was. He knew that she was trying to play him, but he also knew who she was doing it for, and he didn't disapprove.

"You could have at least picked someone who wasn't a rich kid," he sighed.

Bella beamed up at him.

Reluctantly, he smiled back, the awkward expression seeming out of place on his usually-expressive face. "Well," he said simply, "what do you want me to do?"

**A/N: I've decided to start breaking my chapters in half so I can post them more quickly. The next chapter will be pretty unrelated to this one; it's going to be almost all Edward. Thanks to those who review. **


	14. Chapter 13

**Author's Note: Sorry about the wait--finals. Inspiration or this song: Run by Vampire Weekend. Enjoy. **

Chapter Thirteen

_A stranger watched as a woman sat alone at the edge of a bar. _

_The woman was striking, despite the deliberately-inconspicuous clothing draped around her small frame. Her__long, loose curls of hair__, __red lips and dark eyes were attractive even from across the club's dance floor. _

_The stranger observed this with detachment, noting that this woman fit the profile exactly. But there was no way to be sure, unless—_

_A tall man with messy bronze hair approached the woman casually. His affected nonchalance was belied by the flash of heat that passed between the two when their eyes met. _

_The stranger's lips curved with satisfaction, and she eased her body silently into the twisting throng of dancers. _

"So, _this _is your chosen meeting place?" Edward scoffed. "Tasteful, Bella. At least the café was _clean_."

"I guess that's the difference between Seattle and Bellevue," she quipped, and Edward smiled, allowing his gaze to rest on her for a moment before turning it to the crowd around them. "Besides, this won't take long. I just needed to talk to you…briefly."

"Then talk to me…briefly," said Edward. Sensing the bartender approaching behind them, he added loudly, "I'm Anthony, by the way."

"I'm Marie," said Bella. She spoke demurely, perfectly in character, but equally loudly—as if their ears weren't sharp enough to detect a whisper under the booming music.

"What can I get you guys?" asked the bartender, a man with ruddy skin and light blonde hair.

"Two lemonades," answered Edward, not taking his eyes off Bella. She wrinkled her nose at his nostalgia, and he laughed at her.

The barman didn't move, nonplussed at the idea of two such attractive people coming to a bar in order to drink lemonade.

Bella looked up at him. "No ice for the gentleman," she said, and the tone of her voice implied dismissal.

He left accordingly, a little dazed by Marie's smile.

"So," began Edward, "it's not me, it's you, right? That's what this whole thing is about?" The corners of his lips tipped in an easy smirk, but his shoulders were stiff.

Bella flushed, glancing away with uncharacteristic self-consciousness. She hated when he did this, when he took away her command of the situation and spun it in an entirely different direction. It felt like he was deliberately tripping her.

"How did you know?" she asked, smiling flirtatiously for the benefit of onlookers. "Did I bring the 'break-up vibe'?"

"You're positively squirming, Marie—" Edward suddenly grasped her wrist to stop her fidgeting—"and you look unhappy. Those are two fairly large giveaways."

Bella noted his level of confidence (not unjustified) in her affection for him, sizing it up like she would an adversary. The fact that he was literally helping her along the 'break-up' process, and still smiling at her with amusement, spoke volumes. It meant that he knew the power he had over her, and wasn't afraid to use it.

"Well, you're right." She freed her wrist gently. "And the fact that I'm unhappy about it doesn't make any difference."

She began to look away again, but her eyes were caught with his darkening green ones, glittering and heated.

"It makes a difference to me," he practically growled. Then, more calmly, "Tell me, who put you up to this?" His eyes cradled hers with a nearly hypnotic intensity, effectively preventing her from telling anything but the truth.

"Rosalie," Bella said automatically.

"_Alright, Bella," began Rosalie. "Emmett explained your predicament to me, so I'm not going to turn you in." _

_Bella shot one grateful glance at Emmett, who put an arm around Rosalie and smiled. _

"_However," she added quickly, holding up one finger in true dramatic Rosalie fashion, "I have a condition. And I know you aren't going to like it, and I know I would hate it if I was in your place, but we have to be practical. If you continue to see Masen, in any form, you won't be doing anything but further endangering yourself, and now endangering Emmett and me as well. For one thing, you don't know exactly how far you have Masen's loyalty—" _

"_Oh, I have him," Bella disagreed. _

"_And for another," continued Rosalie, annoyed, "and most importantly, if anyone discovered that you've been fraternizing with a target, Aro would kill you. Do you understand, Bella? You would be __**dead**__." _

_While Rosalie spoke, Bella had kept her eyes on Emmett, watching the uncomfortable flicker of emotion across his face. It was obvious that his view of the situation was not as cold as his mate's. _

_Rosalie's golden head tilted to look up at Emmett, and her face softened. She turned to Bella, her violet eyes unapologetic but compassionate. "We love you, Bella," she said. She didn't follow the statement with a 'however', but let it stand. _

_Emmett finally spoke, disengaging from Rosalie to rest his hands on Bella's shoulders. "We have to protect our own, and forget about everyone else. That's just how it is in this business—it's shit, but that's how it is. Honey, I'm sorry." _

_Bella watched the two of them standing together, so satisfied and complete in eachother's presence, and wondered how this conversation would be going if they were both alone. As it was, their hearts were too full to understand emptiness. _

_They both looked at her expectantly, and Bella's lips parted to speak. It took a moment for her to realize that she had absolutely nothing to say. _

_She left. _

_She began to climb down the ladder from the roof into the attic, and then paused halfway down, grasping the enormity of what she had to do. Edward wouldn't make it easy, of that much she was certain. Images of him assaulted her: his lips curving around her name, the ripple of muscle across his back when he stretched, the intensity in his panther's eyes as he eased her against a wall…_

_Bella descended the ladder slowly, heat flooding her cheeks and the rest of her body, as she fought the sudden rush of yearning. It was becoming harder and harder nowadays to keep her thoughts from him, and to stifle the petulant wanting that rose whenever she __**did **__think of him. _

_A few seconds later, she realized that every single one of the twelve men in the room was staring at her. The men had all glanced at her, registered the sexual frustration coming off her in waves, and collectively reacted with straightened spines, broadening chests, widened stances. _

_For a moment, Bella considered them. _

_Her Vindici brothers were all very attractive. Their bodies were well-built, sleek and broad-shouldered with hard muscle. Many of them were handsome—her eyes rested on Garrett and Embry in particular. _

_She would enjoy it, she knew. At least for a moment, she could trade in tension for satisfaction, frustration for pleasure. And none of these men were forbidden; they were easy, eager. _

"_Bella," said Garrett carefully, his eyes filled with a mixture of lust and caution. He took a small step forward, as if he was gently cornering a wounded animal. _

_The normal response would be to either step back or step forward. Bella didn't move. _

_Garrett took another step forward. Bella found herself automatically receiving him, she had made her decision…_

_But then she looked in his eyes and saw blue, not the dark green she had been hoping for. She took in his hair and saw (almost with surprise) dirty blonde, not the bronze she had expected. Edward's face flashed in her memory, undeniable and incomparable. _

_Bella took a step backward, and it was both a pain and a relief. _

_**Wrong one, **__her mind whispered. _

_She fled, leaving the men nonplussed and disappointed behind her. She went to her room and let herself fall against the bed, finally peaceful in solitude, cool linen against her cheek. _

"_Edward," she said, her voice quiet in the silent room. "Edward." _

So now Bella sat in front of Edward, almost aching with want, and trying to explain to him that they couldn't see eachother anymore.

"Oh, Rosalie," said Edward, a little surprised. "The pretty blonde."

"The ugly blonde," he amended, grinning at her sharp look.

Bella returned the smile. "Yes, that one."

"Do you usually do what she says?" he asked curiously.

"Usually _I'm _the one ordering _her _around," Bella laughed. "Believe me, she's not that scary. But since my…indiscretion was discovered, I guess you could say I'm on time-out."

"So that's what I am? An _indiscretion_? Marie, you wound me."

"You're lots of things, Anthony. But in this case, yes, indiscretion is the word."

"And here I've been trying so hard to be discrete," breathed Edward, his eyes smoldering at her in a way that made her nervous.

The bartender returned with their lemonades, placing the one without ice in front of Edward. Once again, he seemed prepared to simply stand there for a while, but another customer further along the bar caught his attention and waved him over.

"I think you understand why this has to stop," Bella said in an undertone, finally reverting to their original topic. "It's the most reasonable conclusion to the situation. I'm willing to admit that I won't be able to kill you now, and I'm fairly confident that you won't kill me—"

"Probably not," Edward admitted.

"So I think it's time for us to call it quits. Pass the torch. These little rendezvous can't be beneficial for either of us."

Edward looked at her for a long moment, and then smiled, showing perfect white teeth. "I think you have a valid point, Marie," he finally said, and then he stood. "And I agree with you. Let's never see eachother again." He held out his hand for her to shake.

Bella gazed up at him, flabbergasted. She hadn't expected this easy acquiescence—she had expected him to argue with her for over an hour, tentatively manipulating and charming her silly. In fact, she had rather _wanted _him to…that is, she wasn't prepared…unable to help herself, Bella frowned up at him in dismay.

"Well?" said Edward, and he arched an expectant eyebrow, hand still offered.

"But—" Unable to go further and hoping to buy time, she took a large gulp of her lemonade.

"This is what you want, isn't it?"

She regarded him silently, trapped, and slightly furious that he had called her out and been successful.

He sat back down, and his face was completely serious. He didn't say anything: her own actions spoke for themselves.

"Damn it," Bella finally muttered.

Boldly, Edward slid closer and took her hand in his, stroking lightly from the underside of her wrist to the tips of her fingers. "You don't _want _to never see me again," he murmured, his deep voice rough velvet in her ear. When she didn't relax against him, though it was with difficulty, he sighed. "Bella, you're so frustrating. Can't you see it? How else do I have to show you?"

"I can see fine," Bella snapped, and she tossed her dark mane of curls over one shoulder, dark eyes flashing. "Better than _you _can, at least. You make it sound so easy—"

"It _is _easy," argued Edward. He ran an agitated hand through his bronze hair, a habit that Bella secretly loved. "We're both trained, powerful, knowledgeable. Why not just go? They couldn't catch us, not together."

"Why not just go?" she mocked. "Because they _will _catch us, and punish the ones we care about."

Edward, who had heretofore been stroking her arm, now gripped her wrist harshly. "And who do you care about, _Marie_?" he asked, the use of her false name only exacerbating the bite in his voice. "Who's currently at the top of your list?"

He'd done this before, made her feel suddenly like a traitor for doing nothing but following orders, made her feel guilty, as if she was fighting for the wrong team.

_Who's currently at the top of your list? _

It's you, Edward. Of course it's you. Who else—no one else—

It was ridiculous, how quickly she had come to feel such a deep affection for this man. She took another large sip of lemonade as her mind went back to that first afternoon at the café, the mix of earnestness and confidence he had shown in conversing with her, and her resulting inability to kill him afterward. Edward had cheerfully dragged her into caring for him, kicking and screaming all the while, but eventually she'd realized that she didn't want to be dragged back out again. She couldn't help what she was feeling, couldn't erase the urge to trace her fingernails up his spine, to take his full bottom lip in between her own, to feel his arms around her.

This was distracting, she realized. Distracting her from her argument with him…what was her argument, again? She bit her lip harshly, trying to regain control of her senses.

Bella raised her eyes to Edward's as she did it, so she was able to see the transformation from agitation to desire in his gaze.

A long-dormant space in Bella's mind began to pay attention. What was this? She'd known that he found her beautiful, but not that she could affect him so easily. She bit her lip again, more gently this time, and was rewarded when he shifted uncomfortably.

Bella's confidence grew considerably.

She deliberately shifted her hips, swaying in her seat, and her dark head tilted back invitingly, testing him.

"Stop that," said Edward, but his eyes followed the movement helplessly.

She smiled up at him, her full red lips curving triumphantly upward, and for a moment she ignored the fact that this was only further distracting her from her task. A brief flash of Rosalie's face came to her mind, but left just as quickly. It was odd, but she couldn't seem to hold on to a single thought for more than a few seconds.

"Alright, fine." Edward stood up, and Bella caught the movement of his abdominal muscles under his shirt as his body unbent. "Let's dance."

Bella laughed disbelievingly, but found herself taking the hand he offered. He lifted her from the bench easily.

The song was a good one, quick beat and infectious melody. Edward led her to the dance floor, and waited until she curled her hands around his neck before fitting his own large hands to her hips.

Bella had always been an awkward dancer before Emmett had found her. She remembered long nights spent at home during school dances, curling under her bedcovers and sighing in sheer relief at her escape. But now, with the acquired grace that had long since become second-nature to her, she felt no self-consciousness, only smooth rhythm-guided movement and the pure chemistry sparking between Edward's body and hers.

It was the first time she'd been close to him in too long, and she felt some deep seated-need in her being met as Edward's jaw grazed her hair, as she moved her hands to accommodate his broad shoulders.

"You're first on the list, you know," she murmured in his ear, acting on instinct, feeling strangely uninhibited.

"I know," Edward grinned, and he spun her fluidly before bringing her body back to his.

Bella laughed, feeling an unbidden rush of adrenaline rise in her body at the motion. She couldn't understand the sudden change—perhaps it was her proximity to Edward, something she'd waited on for what seemed like ages. His malachite eyes burned her with their intensity, and she knew she had never wanted him more than she wanted him in this moment.

"See how natural this is?" Edward breathed, his hand tightening on her back. "You need to stop fighting your instincts, Bella, that's the problem here."

"Yes," Bella agreed, easily, noting however that she _didn't _feel quite natural at the moment. She felt a little strange…had she drunk alcohol? Was this what being drunk felt like? No, she'd never touched alcohol in her life; Carlisle would whip the hell out of her if she did.

"Yes?" repeated Edward sardonically, more than a little disbelief in his voice. "So you're agreeing with me now, no arguments or anything? This sounds a little too good to be true, V."

V, he'd called her. V for Vindici. Well, she certainly didn't mind the nickname; he could call her whatever he wanted, and she'd follow him anywhere…

"It _is _true," she insisted breathlessly, still moving with him to the music. "It doesn't matter…no arguments…I'd do anything…" she trailed off, breathing hard, shaking her head as if to clear it.

"Bella?" prodded Edward, bemused.

In fact, she was breathing a little too hard. Yes—this wasn't normal—something was wrong—

Panic sharpened Bella's mind. "Get me outside, now," she hissed in Edward's ear, infusing her voice with as much authority as she could muster. Her thoughts were slipping away, but she knew this much: neither of them could afford to make a scene in the middle of a public place.

Edward moved with professional alacrity, despite her inability to walk steadily, and they were both in the alley behind the bar in less than a minute.

Bella was panting now, and her vision was becoming blurred. Edward's face, more pale than usual, stared down at her; numbly, she felt his arms supporting her weight.

"Fucking lemonade," she choked. How could she have been so stupid? She'd been so caught up in their conversation that she hadn't bothered to check for poison. Was Edward in danger, too? Surely he couldn't have drunk as much as she…in fact, she didn't recall him drinking at all…

The realization came crashing down upon her with the weight of an elevator.

Well, it seemed as if Edward had finally snagged his target.

"Bella? Bella, talk to me…_Bella_!" Edward's voice and hands were urgent, needlessly so, Bella wondered when he would stop acting —"What are your symptoms? Can you tell which poison it is? Ricin? Botulinum? Bella, _listen to me_!"

"I actually—sort of—trusted you," Bella wheezed. "Isn't—that—funny?"

"No—_Bella_!" His voice was anguished, to Bella's surprise. Maybe he actually regretted what he had done.

"'S all right," she said blearily, in an instinctive attempt to comfort him. "I forgive you."

She heard Edward's low moan—from guilt, she thought fuzzily—as the darkness swallowed her.

**Author's Note: Eh? Eh? Please review. When did you realize that Bella had been poisoned? I left a couple of early hints...**


	15. Chapter 14

**Author's Note**: **Sorry I skipped a month. College and a band I'm currently in have gotten in the way of writing. The next update will be soon, and much more meat-packed. This chapter was inspired by Gimme Sympathy by Metric. Enjoy!**

Chapter Fourteen

The stranger bowed her head respectfully as she gave her report.

She relayed all of the observations she had made of the bronze haired boy and the dark haired girl at the club. The forbidden chemistry between them, so familiar to herself. The poisoned lemonade, which had reached the woman but not her companion. The woman's heightening symptoms as they danced together. And then, finally, the scene in the alley behind the club.

The stranger had watched this encounter closely; her employer had stressed that it was the most important part of her mission. She had noted with a smile the Vindici girl's accusatory body language, and the panicked posture of the Scopo boy. When the girl had slumped in his arms, obviously unconscious, the stranger had watched the man intently. This was the climax, the point in the scene which would sway her employer's decision.

When the boy had left with the Vindici girl in his arms, the stranger had nodded in satisfaction and left for home.

Her employer listened to the report thoughtfully, his head tilted to one side and his hands folded on the desk before him. When she had finished, he gave her an approving, if distant, smile. "Very good," he murmured. "Most informative."

"So you've made your decision?" she asked hesitantly.

"Yes. Now we will wait." Her employer smiled again. "You may leave now. I'm sure that there's someone who is missing you."

"Thank you," the stranger said quietly, and she left the room.

**Rosalie POV **

Carlisle was looking at her. She was sure of it.

Rosalie's character wasn't inclined to paranoia, but the events of the past week had more than sufficed to put her on edge.

"_**I'll **__do it," she had said exasperatedly, after Emmett finished telling her of Bella's predicament. "God, if she can't do it then why doesn't someone do it for her?" _

"_Rose, it isn't that simple…"_

"_She's fucked, Emmett," Rose said simply. "And so are we, if you involve us in this. Think about what you're doing, Emmett. I refuse to see you go down with her—"_

"_What the hell are you even saying? Do you know who you're talking about? Rose, this is __**Bella**__, for Christ's sake! You think you're gonna turn her in? You love her like a sister—"_

"_Not if she's sleeping with the enemy, I don't," Rosalie interjected hotly. _

"_Don't bullshit me. She's your best friend. Your problem is that you can't look at this from the right—"_

"_Don't you even __**think **__about telling me I have the wrong perspective, Emmett McCarty. There's only one way of looking at this. She's going against her family, breaking her oaths—"_

"_But what if it was me, Rosalie?" _

_Emmett's eyes burned into hers, wide hazel and devastatingly earnest, and Rosalie realized that she had already lost. Emmett's pleading face, his use of her full name, and his question all amounted to one question: __**Don't you love me? **_

_Damn it, Rosalie thought. _

"_You would kill me?" Emmett asked quietly, grasping his advantage. "You could do it?" _

_Rosalie was forced to drop her eyes from his, a low gasp of sudden pain catching in her chest. _

"_Baby, we have to do this," Emmett said, even more gently. "We have to help her. __**I **__have to help her. If I had just let her go that first night at La Push…" he shook his head, guilt painfully clear on his face. "I love her too, Rose. And I owe her." _

_Yes, Rosalie loved Bella. She had to admit this. On some level she understood that her own reaction was due more to habitual jealousy than indignation. Why was it that Bella got to break the rules and get away with it? Why was it that Bella, several years her junior, was an undisputed leader among their ranks? And why was it that Bella, so strong and cold, could be so universally pitied? Had they forgotten that Rosalie hadn't asked for this, either? Had they forgotten that being raped and nearly murdered hadn't actually been first on her list of priorities? _

_But when these bouts of jealousy came, Rosalie always reminded herself (as she did now) that she __**did **__know why Bella was to be pitied: it was because she was alone—alone—alone. _

_No matter how angry Rosalie was, she would never be as bad off as Bella. No matter how incomplete Rosalie was—she had found completion, in Emmett. _

_Rosalie sighed, leaned forward and rested her head against Emmett's chest in mute submission. He took her hand and brought it to his lips, stroking her hair with his other hand, murmuring his love for her into her palm. _

"_Is she going to be all right?" Rosalie wondered aloud. _

"_God, I hope so." Emmett's voice was as fervent as if he was truly praying. "But I don't know how she could be. Either way, even if she can dodge Aro and Carlisle's punishment, she can never be with him." _

So now Rosalie sat, uncomfortably aware of Carlisle's probing gaze on her face. She felt her face automatically transforming into a mask, devoid of emotion, her body calling on years of experience and training. That was easily done—but now she had to wonder why Carlisle was staring at her so intensely. Had her anxiety for Bella shown on her face? Had he guessed at their secret?

And where _was _Bella? She had fully informed them of her whereabouts tonight—she was going to a club in Bellevue, to break it off with Masen. Bella had assured both her and Emmett, in an uncharacteristically dull voice, that she expected the conversation to be short.

Rosalie fought a frown; Bella had been gone for over 7 hours. Perhaps she had gone back on her promise? Maybe she _had _gone through with it, and was sitting alone at a club somewhere, alone and hurting?

She caught Emmett's eye, indulging for a moment in a worried glance.

Bella was the best assassin of them all, so it never occurred to Rosalie that she was in any physical danger.

**Edward POV **

Edward shoved his foot once more against the accelerator. Raw, animal desperation was clouding his senses. He kept looking over at the prone form in the backseat, the mass of curls tumbling over his leather seats.

Edward examined Bella once again, watching her slow, shallow of her chest with each breath, and his heart thudded with panic as he saw her breathing falter once again.

_Oh, God, please. _

_Oh God, please, help me save her. _

He had felt elated back at the club, almost high as they danced together. He had caught her with her own logic, shown her her own feelings and finally, _finally, _it had seemed like she was prepared to accept them—and all the while her body was beginning to shut down in his arms.

A strange, guttural sound of pain ripped from Edward's chest.

How could he have not checked the lemonade? He had been too angry and too hopeful to notice their drinks much; he hadn't even touched his own. But now, Edward realized that his absentmindedness had been no less than an invitation to his enemies.

_Our _enemies, he reminded himself. He had not overlooked the fact that this was the second time an attempt on either his or Bella's life had been made by an unknown force.

_Our. Us. We. _The words danced, both tantalizing and mocking, in Edward's head. They were what he had wanted with Bella all along—what he had suffered for. His love for Bella was inconvenient, by any standards, and more painful than he had ever imagined love to be as a boy. But he knew that he would not take it back, would not banish away the memories of Bella's scent, Bella's skin, Bella's smile, Bella's soul—his choice was made. His choice had been made the first time he saw her, though he hadn't known this at the time.

Bella's choice, on the other hand, was proving to be more elusive. She had ceased to deny the impossibly strong attraction they had for eachother, but refused to acknowledge the strength of the emotional attachment between them. She seemed to think that her feelings for him (or his for her) were temporary, a sort of passing craze, something she had to ride out for a while before it went away.

Edward knew this was not true. He _knew _Bella, far better than she did herself. He had seen glimpses of her true character, the person she had been before she became an assassin, and he was certain that she was the type for lifelong commitment. If she didn't love him…if, as she seemed to think, their relationship was based only on sexual attraction…then she probably would have fucked him and killed him. Two things that, as of now, she had been unable to do.

Her words from earlier that night echoed in his mind, made honest by the fogginess of her mind: "It doesn't matter…no arguments…I'd do anything…" And then, just before she had passed out, she'd told him that she had almost trusted him.

He was going to earn her trust. He was going to match her, tame her …

Just as he thought this, he heard a low moan from the backseat, and he realized that his thoughtlessness might have already killed her.

"Edward?" Bella murmured with difficulty, her breath hitching three times in succession as she spoke.

"I'm here, Bella." Edward's voice was one of controlled calm, low and soothing.

"You didn't kill me, did you?"

"No, Bella, I didn't," he replied earnestly, even though he was fairly certain that was slipping back out of consciousness.

"How embarrassing," she mused faintly, and then Edward's suspicions were proven true as her body slumped against the seat and her breathing slowed once more. It was not as strong as it had been before.

_No. _His heart, which had been accelerated even through his musings, now pounded double time. He cursed himself for not asking her about her symptoms while he had the chance—he still had know idea what she had been poisoned with. His mind felt jarred and numb, part of an alternate universe, repeating his breathless plea over and over.

_No; I love her. Please, I have to keep her. _

Edward's foot rammed against the accelerator once again as, in a move of pure desperation, he swerved the car around and sped in the other direction.

His panic was replaced with an inexorable sense of determination. With the hand that wasn't clenched on the wheel, he took out his phone and began to dial the one person who could help him.

_**Seven Years Ago**_

"_I want you to have a happy birthday," Esme said suddenly, as if despite herself. _

"_Thanks?" replied Edward uncertainly._

"_No, I __**want **__you to," she said sadly. "I want you to be happy. It's strange for a parent, wanting to be the solution and knowing that they are the problem. Though," she surveyed him, "probably not as strange as being that parent's child." _

_He answered her shortly, bitterly. "I had 15 perfect years. The tide had to come in sometime." _

"_Perfect years," she echoed blearily. "Yes, I had one of those once." She glanced at him face, searching for his father's features. After a few moments, her gaze sharpened on him, became more focused. "You know," said his mother, "there's not a day that I don't regret bringing you in to all this." _

"_I know," he acknowledged quietly. _

"_And I honestly thought I was doing what was best for you at the time," Esme continued. "But I'm aware that I owe you, Edward Masen. I owe you happiness." Her chin lifted; this was what she had come here to say. "So that's my real birthday gift to you. If you ever need a favor, something big, something small, anything you want, you can have it. Anything at all, I'll give it to you. Don't forget. I…" She looked into his face, earnest, painful. _

_With that, as hurriedly as she had come, she was gone. Edward remained on the piano bench, his chin propped up on his hands. Her words meant little to him: he couldn't imagine unbending his pride enough to ask __**her**__ for anything. He couldn't imagine wanting anything that much. _

Edward cradled Bella's nearly lifeless body to his chest as he rushed towards the alleyway behind home base. He approached the hooded person leaning against the wall, whose back was turned to him. Shifting Bella's weight into one arm, Edward tapped her shoulder.

She whirled around immediately, understanding the signal. "Edward," she began, "what—?" But then her eyes fell on Bella. They flashed with shock, anger, wariness, and finally chagrin as she realized what he was asking of her.

The son looked down calmly, coldly on his mother's face.

"Esme," said Edward, "I'm calling in my debts."


	16. Chapter 15

**Author's Note: I apologize for the wait, and appreciate everyone's patience. This chapter, and the whole story, really, was inspired by the song Breath by Breaking Benjamin. The song really encompasses the assassin-aspect of Bella and Edward's relationship: you should check it out. Enjoy the chapter. **

Chapter Fifteen

The first thing Bella was aware of when she came to was Edward's presence. Even with her eyes closed and silence all around her, she knew he was there. She told him so, groggily, and heard his sharp exhale in response, almost a laugh.

The second thing she was aware of was the odd and unprecedented weakness in her muscles. Bella tried to stretch, measuring the effort it took from her, and receded with a sigh of frustration.

Her memories were like sand in an hourglass—here one moment, gone the next. She finally was forced to ask.

"What happened? Was I poisoned?" she guessed, and hated that her voice was not as strong as usual. She tried to sit up, but was eased back down gently before she could fail to do so.

"Yes," said Edward's voice, close to her ear. She felt something cool touch her forehead. Then Edward's voice added, almost as if to himself, "But I still don't understand."

Finally, curiosity forced Bella to open her eyes. Edward's face was close to hers, looking beautiful but tired, with a hint of stubble along his jaw that had never been there before. His clothing, usually in perfect order, was noticeably rumpled. The effect that the sight of him had on her had not changed, however; when her eyes found his face, her breathing automatically slowed and deepened.

Edward's green eyes met hers, and a silent greeting passed between them.

"What don't you understand?" Bella asked wearily. She glanced once around the room; it seemed as if they were in an apartment of some kind.

Edward shook his head, running a hand through his bronze hair. "They gave you Ethylene glycol, Bella. A poison with a commonly known antidote."

Though Bella's memory was foggy, the name came to her instantly. "_Fomezipole_." This was an agent, among many others, that she had been introduced to in her first year as an assassin. She had never employed it herself, having used only poisons on targets, but she had been told of its functions.

"Right," Edward confirmed. "What I don't understand is why someone trying to kill you would give you a poison with such an easily accessible antidote. It doesn't make any sense to me. You or I would never make that mistake."

Bella mind was sharpening, and with this added clarity came a thread of humor. "So, it _wasn't_ you that tried to kill me."

"Don't you think we're past all those evasions now?" Edward said dryly. Bella immediately understood what he meant. In a way, killing Edward _would _be a sort of evasion—an attempt to avoid facing the unnamed connection that existed between them.

"Well," said Bella, with a small smile that had something of her usual careless laughter. "Surprise, surprise." His earlier words registered with her, and her thoughts changed track. "I _wouldn't _make that mistake. It's completely elementary. I can't believe I…" She stopped, realizing that she had been about to admit a vulnerability to him. Which was actually ridiculous, considering that she had been as vulnerable as humanly possible for the past few days…on the point of death—

Wait. What the hell was going on here?

"Umm…Edward?" Bella began, instinctual caution beginning to sweep over her as she spoke.

"Bella?" Edward's eyes remained intent on her face, his own features relaxed and cloudless as he looked down at her.

When Bella spoke next, her words were sharper and more precise than her previous slurred offerings. "Why the fuck didn't you just let me _die_?"

Edward's green eyes widened, then skittered away from hers to rest on the floor.

Of all the events that had occurred in the past few days, this was the one that Bella found most confusing. Edward had had a perfect opportunity to eliminate his target, an opportunity that also allowed him to escape the guilt of the actual act—upon realizing that she had been poisoned at the club, he could have easily turned and strolled home, an innocent passerby, and checked her off of his list. Since he hadn't seemed to be able to kill her before, this would have been almost too lucky. It was a strategy that was often employed within the Vindici: _If you can't kill the target, let someone else do it for you. _

Bella herself had been called upon several times to finish a job for others before, and she had seen the relief on other assassin's faces when she told them that the job was completed. Edward, she was sure, would have felt some form of relief, relief that the job was done or, at the very least, relief that all the craziness between them was over.

_So why hadn't he just walked away?_

Edward's voice interrupted her bewildered reverie. "Would you have just left me there, if our places were reversed?"

"Yes," she snapped, too quickly. Inside, she helplessly recounted all of the ploys she had created to _prevent _Edward's death—all of the faltering hesitation, the arguments with Emmett and Rosalie.

A beautiful smile formed on Edward's face; he coked his head to the side and said, "Even after all your training, you're still not a perfect liar, Bella. I know your face too well by now—your eyes give you away."

"Let's just cut the condescending bullshit, shall we?" Bella suggested. "Look, I know you keep trying to get me to think there's some kind of eternal _thing_ between us, and that's fine if that's the strategy you want to use. But I'm just letting you know, the time for lulling me into a false sense of security is long gone. It ended about two months ago, and it's not going to work on me now. So I'd like you to answer my original question, if you don't _mind_."

A small spark of anger lit Edward's eyes, but the smile remained on his face. "Have you ever considered the idea that there really _is _something between us? Or, maybe, that this has all been just as crazy and confusing for me as it is for you? Do you…do you remember anything of what we talked about at the club?"

After a long pause, Bella answered honestly, "No."

In her own mind, Bella's negative was not only aimed at his question, but also at Edward's other statements. No sooner had he spoken them than she had dismissed them as impossible. Her mind was still dulled and confused by the aftereffects of poison, but one truth was absolutely certain:

Bella was not _loveable. _

Bella was a cold and heartless killer, and had been for years. She lived off of the deaths of others. She had none of the redeeming qualities that she saw in other assassins, like Emmett's nigh-constant good humor and Carlisle's eternal calm. Yes, she was beautiful. She was aware of this. But she was also aware that it takes more than beauty alone to inspire true love and constancy, had been aware of this even as the frail and shy teenager she once was. In the end, she had been crafted—crafted by Emmett, Carlisle and Aro in their turns—to be brilliant, matchless, and always alone. No one would come to fill that void. No one would _want _to.

Edward continued in his delusion. "You know, if you and I had met in a different place, or a different lifetime…everything would be settled by now. You wouldn't be so damned stubborn. And I probably wouldn't be so…" His face crumpled slightly, and he didn't finish.

There he was, making himself vulnerable again. Deliberately, to put her at ease. Nothing could be more confusing, or more frustrating.

She caught on to the first part of his statement, and flared. "Don't you blame my family for this situation. Don't you ever do that. Without them I would be dead in an unmarked grave years ago. They _saved_ me."

"You little fool," said Edward, his anger matching hers. "They threatened to kill you if you didn't join, am I right? And of course you did what any other seventeen year old girl would do, to save your own life, and now you're trying to tell me that _they _saved you from _themselves_? That's a joke, and you know it."

"I didn't do it to save my life!" Bella snarled, sitting up on the couch and panting with the effort it took from her body. "I knew exactly what I was doing. I was given a chance to save good people by taking out the bad ones. It was worth it to me."

"But can't you see that it's not about innocent people, Bella? It never has been! It's about power! Power and control over a population, things that you can't achieve without killing!"

"You sure aren't being very complimentary to your own family," noted Bella, slightly amused now. After years of having the truth ingrained in her, Edward's words seemed akin to the rant of a fanatic, a madman.

He sighed, his anger seeming to fade before aching sadness. "I don't have a family, Bella. You don't either, if you would just realize it." And he scrutinized her face with something so like longing that Bella was forced to look away from the intensity of those emerald eyes.

_He's faking it, _she told herself. _He must be. _In a move of pure desperation, she stood and began to move across the room, away from him. Her moves were slow, shaky, and she felt that she could fall any moment, but every defense mechanism in her arsenal was screaming _escape _at her.

Edward had stood, too, and was following her just as slowly. To her it seemed as if he was stalking her, calculating every movement; she was sure he could sense her weakness.

Bella adjusted the dark blue v-neck she was wearing, slightly damp from the sweat of her illness. Standing made her feel so tired. Even the dark hair curling loosely around her shoulders seemed lifeless.

She looked at Edward, who stood several paces away from her. Though his grey sweater was in need of ironing, though his hair was tousled and messier than usual, she couldn't imagine anything more appealing—a stark contrast to what she probably looked like right now. She studied him more closely, measuring the magnetism of his presence and, once again, failing to classify it in any comprehensible sense. Bella had never wanted someone, never wanted to completely _own _someone, as much as she did him. She sighed involuntarily; even the sight of him made her weaker than she already was.

Bella looked up into his eyes, a strange mixture of hunger and concern, and the raw susceptibility of this moment drove her to speak honestly. "I just don't understand you, Edward. I don't know what you want from me."

Other than her death, what could he want? Ransom? Sex? The deep recesses of her mind denied these options automatically. She trusted him more than she would admit even to herself.

Edward gazed down at her, and after a moment his jaw tightened—he seemed to make a decision.

"Bella, you know exactly what I want," he said, slowly and distinctly.

And suddenly he was moving. Her mind, still in its groggy state, didn't register the action quickly enough for her to act defensively. Edward reached her in two quick strides, dark green eyes smoldering and strangely determined…pulled her to him, and kissed her.

_Oh_, was Bella's last thought before thoughts melted into pure sensation.

She had sometimes imagined this moment, daydreamed about it back at home base with a mixture of guilt and pleasure. She had tried to calculate exactly how it would feel, taking into consideration the electric high that his touch alone provided for her. Bella had been sure that, were this impossible situation ever to arise, she would be prepared.

She had not been prepared.

Edward was kissing her almost savagely, unable to control himself, one hand trailing up her spine and the other still in her hair, and Bella's feeble body was taking over for her, responding with all the enthusiasm she possessed while her mind fell helplessly to the wayside under the flush of ecstasy.

This was not calm or placid. This was Bella's body reacting to his on a chemical level, while the pulse of sensory overload sounded in her brain. _More _was the only concept she was aware of: an easy enough command to obey.

When she felt Edward beginning to withdraw, realizing his slip, she curled her arms around his neck and pulled his lips back to hers with all the force she could muster.

It was enough for him to keep kissing her, but too much for her own body. Her strength, usually in such abundant supply, seemed to sink to the floor; she surrendered to the feeling of bonelessness. Edward groaned into her mouth; after a single weightless moment, she realized that he was supporting her whole body with his arms, holding her against him effortlessly.

_Oh, _she thought again—this time, it wasn't so much an _oh _of realization as it was an _oh, yes. _

Edward's arms tightened around her in seeming agreement.

Slowly, gradually, the kiss began to deepen and change. Not so frantic now, the kiss was more gentle, more rhythmic, and had the feeling of a promise. Bella sighed as the haze in her mind receded somewhat, as her emotions were able to catch up to the sensations…and was surprised and alarmed as she recognized what she was feeling.

Warmth. Adoration. _Love_.

Love?

In the world of assassins, this was a word used rarely and cautiously. It was taught and widely known that romantic love was to be avoided, as it was unpredictable and caused such a turmoil of emotions as would disrupt the inner stillness that assassins require. However, the power of Bella's sudden understanding denied hesitation. For good or for ill, she was in love.

How silly that she hadn't realized it before.

Of course, the way she felt about Edward was quite different from her other loves: the way she felt about Charlie, Rosalie, Emmett, even Jasper. Especially Jasper. What she had felt for Jasper was similarity and strong friendship—it was a shade, an echo, a murmur of darkness in comparison with blazing, blinding light.

Since she had associated these people with love, it was naturally that she had found what existed between her and Edward to be puzzling and alien. This, in addition to the blockade of denial she had created around herself, had helped her ignore the irrevocable changes that were taking place inside her. In the past few months she'd spent with Edward, against her will, she had been forming an unbreakable tie to Edward.

Bella was still kissing Edward frantically as these truths locked into place within her, not in words but in sensations. But as he began to slow down, she allowed it. She allowed it because something else was nagging at the back of her mind, a frighteningly firm something else that intruded in her one moment of bliss. The instant Edward pulled away from her and broke their connection, the something else made itself known with a force that hit Bella like a bullet to the stomach.

Loyalty.

Allegiance.

Reality was a bitch.

Oh no, Bella thought, as this reality settled around her like ash. Oh no, no, no. The potential heartbreak for her in this moment was such that expletives were insufficient.

Edward was still supporting her, his arms carefully gentle. A brief flash of humor tugged at her lips as she recalled his knifing her in the arm on their first meeting, and that she had shot him in the thigh in response. The humor didn't last long, however, because as she looked up at Edward, both of them panting slightly, his eyes were so earnest and intense that her breath hitched in pain.

"All you alright?" Edward asked, immediately catching this. "Did I hurt you? Is it—"

"I'm in love with you," Bella said. She kept her voice steady, but made no effort to hide the anguish in it. _This is what I was subconsciously trying to avoid, _she thought to herself. _I guess it was bound to come sometime. _

Edward stared at her, no pleasure registering on his face. He was not focusing on her words, but rather the way she had said them.

"Bella, I'm in love with you," he replied, his voice a careful echo. He added, in a rather flat voice, "You don't see this as a good thing, do you?"

"No, I don't," she whispered.

"Because I, personally—"

"Stop, Edward! Oh, God, it hurts." She turned away from Edward, stretching her arms protectively over the sudden gaping hole in her chest.

Edward came up behind her, pulled her arms away and replaced them with his own. Immediately her body relaxed, betraying her intentions. "Bella," Edward murmured. "Isabella."

She flinched.

"Ed-Edward?" Bella was disgusted to hear that her own voice sounded like a frightened child's. She wasn't used to this kind of pain. She would rather be shot a hundred times than continue to endure this.

Edward spun her around to face him, placing his hands on her shoulders to hold her still—or to hold her up, possibly, as she was still swaying from the aftereffects of ethylene glycol. "Why, Bella? What could possibly be bigger than this?"

"I belong to someone else," she answered wearily. "More than one person, actually. I've taken oaths."

"And you don't think I have? In a join-or-die situation, I think there's a little moral leeway when it comes to promises."

"Well, I meant mine," responded Bella, a little more firmly. "I keep my word. I'm Vindici for life."

"God, Bella, _no_," groaned Edward. "You don't know what you're doing." He ran a hand through his hair, his green eyes not dark now but like grass in the sunlight. He turned his head, fixing them on her with their full power, agonized and pleading.

"You don't know how hard this is going to be for me," said Bella. She was determined to be honest with him, despite the pain—she had fed him too many evasions, too many half-truths in the past months.

"Don't you dare pretend to be a victim here," ordered Edward, his voice low. "You are _choosing _this, do you hear me? I would have given everything up for you gladly, so don't cry to me because there's this one little thing that's more important to you."

"_Nothing's _more important to me, and if I was free—"

"You're too loyal for your own good, Bella! It's messing with your priorities! I wish to God you would let yourself be human for one second, and stop trying to be so brave that you would throw away—"

"There are people that I _owe _at home, Edward! People that practically raised me! How will I ever be able to look myself in the mirror everyday when I've betrayed the people that have saved my life a million times?"

"You could look at me instead," offered Edward, so sincerely that this time she couldn't fight back the sound of pain that rose in her throat.

Edward's face gentled even more at the sound; he took Bella's hand and led her back to the couch, sitting down beside her as she sank into the cushion with relief.

"Bella, these are people that would have killed you if you hadn't taken the oath. Even your closest friends would kill you if they were ordered to, because that's what they would have to do to survive. This isn't about allegiance, Bella. You and I were both forced to become assassins when we were teenagers. Now we have the chance to escape, Bella—one chance in a lifetime of killing. Are you really going to say no to it? Are you really going to say no to _me_?"

"Edward, in another life I know I wouldn't be able to refuse you anything—but this _is _about allegiance. If you and I run off together, there are going to be people coming after us. Those people have been family to me for as long as I let myself remember. It would be like turning around and shooting my brother—a brother I've sworn to protect, at all costs."

"So your allegiance is with them, then…not with me," Edward concluded slowly.

"Yes," Bella confirmed, ignoring the fact that her hands were shaking. "I've given the Vindici my word, Edward. And being a professional killer, my word is all I have."

His hand tightened around hers as a humorless smile curled his lips. "So you're going to stay an assassin out of a sense of _integrity_?"

"Yep," she answered, and moved closer to him in a subconscious effort to alleviate the pain in her chest. "That about covers it."

She looked up at him—oh God, he was too beautiful, too good for her—and pressed a swift kiss to the stubble-covered jaw.

He closed his eyes at her touch, as if he were committing it to memory. Likewise, when he ran his hand over her curls, he seemed to be enjoying their texture for the last time.

"Please," he said, so quiet that his voice wasn't even a whisper.

"Edward," was her only reply, his name like a prayer on her lips.

_This is your last chance, _she told herself. _Your last chance to tell him what you feel.. _

"Edward," she repeated. "Don't hate me. You're everything. You're perfect. I'm…nothing, compared to you. So don't… so please just…you're so…I—" she choked on all of the words she wanted to say, and looked at him helplessly.

"Love you," Edward finished, his voice bitter. "But that's not enough this time, is it?"

He looked down at her, and she looked up at him, and there was nothing more to say.

Bella knew that the minute she left the apartment, her pain would increase one hundredfold. There were already things she knew she was leaving unsaid, things she would think of later and agonize over. But she had to be brave. This was her duty. Emmett would be proud of her…this was what they'd sent her out to do, wasn't it? But she hadn't planned on the task being like death—she hadn't planned on this pain—she hadn't planned on loving him.

_Is it the same for him? _ She wondered. _Is it just as painful? _Bella refused to believe it—his pride was hurt, certainly, and maybe his heart was sore, but he would go on. Go on to be something other than what his mother had planned for him, and maybe along the way meet someone who wasn't so bloody, so trapped—someone who was, in short, better than her. Now that Bella had finally faced her insecurities, she realized that they could be used as an ally for Edward's benefit.

"You should get back," said Edward. "There are probably at least five hatchets out looking for you right now."

She shrugged at him with a grim smile, one that said _see what I meant? _and _sorry_ in the same gesture.

Bella turned to the door, and realized, after several tries and to her utter humiliation, that she was unable to undo the lock. A warm hand pressed over hers a moment later, guiding her hand easily, then withdrew as the door clicked open. Bella turned, determined to have one last sight of him—this one would have to last a lifetime—and the _take care of yourself _that she had meant to say caught in her throat as she gazed at him silently, drinking him in.

He looked at her blankly for a long moment. When he finally spoke, there was steel in his voice. "Make sure I don't see you again, Bella."

"I will," promised Bella, hearing and understanding the warning. "I…good luck, Edward."

Finally, having looked at him for as long as was safe, and having said only half of what she wanted to, she pushed the door open and stepped outside. The door clicked shut behind her; after that, all was silence.

**A/N: Please review. **


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